Worth
by icey cold
Summary: The Prince of Starkhaven could never let such a trespass - or the Champion of Kirkwall - go unpunished. But what price can a Prince pay for both revenge and love? Post game. Sebastian x Hawke, & an ensemble cast!
1. Chapter 1

**Worth **

_A note to readers before we begin: this story was conceived as a result of a prompt at the Dragon Age kink meme and has (is – for as I write this the story is not yet done) been subsequently posted there. I'm de-anoning to post the more polished version here. The requester asked to see a damsel in distress Hawke being rescued by Sebastian from a most terrible fate. Though their relationship has been strained by his vows and her unrequited feelings, she has complete and utter faith that he will rescue her. Lo! He comes, and his own feelings for her are exposed: no man shall dare touch his Hawke. _

_I apologize to my more badass readers if Marcelle Hawke comes across as too weak or gentle for their tastes – my intent was to make her more stoic and less flashy than a certain other Fereldan hero. However…Having recently played DA:II on nightmare mode, I can safely say that Marcelle Hawke, though a kind spirit healer, outlasts just about anyone in a fight. _

_I should also add that Lady Winde has been doing companion artwork pieces for this story. Chapters that have artwork will be noted as such. You can find links to the pictures in my profile. _

_Oh! And there are very small spoilers for Trovommi Amor in this story._

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

It was snowing when Marcelle Hawke left Amaranthine.

Flakes the color of downy, dove white and fresh lace fell atop her head and along her shoulders, sticking to the heavy blue cloak she wore to stave off the chill. The wind made the snowflakes dance around her ankles as it tried to lift up the heavy skirts of her robe and slap at the tender skin of her legs - but with her thick woolen pants lurking just below her robes, she was impervious to the wind's intentions and effects. It nipped and gnawed at her cheeks, turning the skin pink, raw, and flushed, but such things were easily cured by magic and she paid no heed to the pain.

With her staff in hand, she beckoned her grey-armored brother to come closer. There was pride in his heavy footsteps as he trudged through the snow towards her, but also resentment too. There were grudges between them that would persist until the ending of the world, but he looked to be at peace now, having finally found a calling where he was not overshadowed by his sister. He was a Grey Warden and he would do many things in his life that most people would not hear of, but he was happy. The fact that he did not even squirm when she touched his chin and kissed his cheek told her as much (Carver _hated_ being kissed by his sisters).

"Goodbye, Sister," he murmured, laying a gauntlet on her shoulder. "Be safe."

"I will be the soul of caution," she assured quietly. "I promise."

"Heh, not bloody likely." Carver flashed a wry smile. "I mean it though. Take care of yourself."

"I will." As Carver returned to the Warden Commander's side, Marcelle took the opportunity to incline her head graciously at the woman. She thanked the Commander for the gift of her protection and her secrecy. "I know you are not fond of mages," Marcelle said to the younger woman, "and that it was with great personal risk that you took me in. I will never be able to thank you enough."

"It was the least I could do for Carver," said the Warden Commander with a throaty laugh and a wry smile, "and a fellow Fereldan." The wind captured strands of her long, blonde curls and sent them dancing amidst the snowflakes and it was with a steady hand that she swept the hair out of her face.

Over the months that Marcelle had spent sheltered in Vigil's Keep, she had come to learn a lot about the enigmatic and charismatic Fereldan Commander of the Grey. She was everything that Anders had described, and yet was also nothing like her. He had compared her to Meredith, suggesting that she was not only a ruthless tyrant, but also void-bent on making mages miserable with her dogma and prejudice. "She's like ice," Anders had said, "a terrible witch made of ice. Not only do the Grey Wardens make you give up your cat when you sign up, but apparently, they also make you give up your heart, too."

And while it was odd that Marcelle had not encountered a single Grey Warden who was a mage at the Vigil, the Warden Commander had been nothing but civil towards her… and strangely enough, also very understanding. In what had been a bizarre first meeting, the Warden Commander had been waiting at the dock of Amaranthine City for her ship from Kirkwall to arrive. If Marcelle remembered rightly, it had been pouring down with rain.

"The wind," the Warden Commander had explained as she held her hood over her face, "smelt terrible. I knew trouble was coming from the sea." She had then raised a thin eyebrow as a flash of lightning illuminated the shadows of her face and the dark leather of her embroidered eye patch. "Running from something, Champion?"

She had not spoken with the Warden Commander again for another month, preferring to keep out of the stormy woman's way as she went about running her arling and commanding her Grey Wardens. Cornered by the woman in the Vigil's library on a chilly evening that had promised snow, Marcelle had admitted that she was fleeing, "justice."

"Justice rarely happens, unless it is by our own hand," the Warden Commander had said sagely, placing a careful gauntlet on Marcelle's shoulder. The metal had glowed orange in the firelight, as had the rest of the Warden Commander's armor. "So who seeks justice from you, Champion of Kirkwall?"

"A prince," Marcelle had responded, turning her blue eyes to the flames that danced in the hearth. She remembered shapes rising from the fire and ash swirling about the figures. At first they were faceless, voiceless bodies, but the roaring of the hearth soon gave way to the din of battle and cries of despair.

_Sebastian gripped her arm tightly, his blue eyes narrowed in shock – hatred - betrayal as he stared over her shoulder to where Anders sat. "No! You cannot possibly mean to let him go? I will not allow this maleficar to walk free!" _

"_It was her decision to make," Anders replied morosely, turning the dagger Marcelle had tossed at his feet in his hands. "Not yours."_

"_Sebastian -" Marcelle opened her mouth to speak, gently laying her palm over the hand that was clenched around her arm in a bruising grip. _

"_No words from you," he hissed. As if touching her scalded him, he pushed her roughly away. "I trusted you. Elthina trusted you! You were my friend..." His upper lip curled back in disdain. "But now I see where your loyalties truly lie. Maleficarum attract maleficarum." _

_She winced; not from his words, but from the loud rumbling of falling lumber and stone from somewhere within the wreckage of the Chantry. _

"_That is unfair and uncalled for." It was Aveline's voice. _

"_Unfair?" Sebastian asked incredulously. "Unfair? This entire world is unfair. But no longer. I will change that." He pointed a finger, first at Marcelle, then at Anders. "If he lives, I am going to Starkhaven and upon my return I will raise such an army that I will burn Kirkwall to the ground. I will leave no place for these…" he spat out the word at the two mages, "maleficars to hide." _

_Marcelle twisted her hands in front of her as she watched Sebastian work himself into a rage, trying to form her words into something that he would understand. Something that he would find meaningful. "It is not what - " she tried to say, to console, but Sebastian cut her off with a raised hand. _

"_No. No more feeble words. I will not treat with a murderer…"his eyes flicked to Anders, "or his accomplice." They returned to her. _

_There was a flurry of protest from the companions that they had traveled with, shouts of how untrue Sebastian's accusations were, of how this had gone on long enough, of how they had better things to do than squabble over an event that none of them could change. In the midst of the storm of words, Sebastian stared at Marcelle, and she stared back at him. There was a look in his eye that Marcelle had not seen since he'd first posted his bounty on the Chanter's board, and even then, the look had not been so sharp or cutting. It was despair made tangible, and loss so profound that nothing mattered except finding a means to ease and end it. _

_But no prayer would ease Sebastian. He was a man accustomed to action and was easily blown about on violent winds. Only vengeance, only justice, could soothe his soul, and if Marcelle had not recognized it when she first met him, she recognized it now among the smoke and the wreckage of the Chantry. Nothing would satisfy him except blood and death. _

_Marcelle held up a hand to silence the squabbling around her. For a moment, she contemplated what she could say; if there was indeed anything she could say. What he wanted she could not give him, for such a judgment was not in her hands to make. She could debate the point for hours and try to explain that there were better punishments than death, but something told her that Sebastian had long since passed the point of reason. She had a massacre to avert and there was no more time to waste. There was nothing she could say that would change his mind, and so she did not try. Pragmatism and an aching heart bade her not to speak. She needed to get to the docks before the last of the ships departed for the Gallows. She had to be aboard one of those ships, even if it meant losing Sebastian forever by missing her last chance to convince him that he was wrong. _

_If there was a Maker, she prayed, then he would make Sebastian see reason and temper his rage._

_But her prayer went unanswered. Sebastian turned from her, giving her and Anders one long, contemptuous look before calling out over his shoulder: "I will return for you, and your precious Anders. And when I do, you will both know what true justice is." He moved away into the deepening shadows of Kirkwall, the falling ash obscuring him from view like a veil of snow. _

_When Sebastian was out of sight, Marcelle turned to Anders. "Leave," she said in a quiet voice. "I never want to see you again."_

_But Anders, ever the opportunist, had already gone. _

She had been drawn out of her reverie by the gentle shepherding of the Warden Commander. She was ushered to a chair by the fire, urged to sit numbly as the Warden Commander arranged her hands in her lap like a doll and knelt before her.

"I know a thing or two about princes." The Warden Commander had peered up into her face, grey eye sad as her hands rested flat across the tops of Marcelle's thighs, "they are not the forgiving sort, are they?"

"I thought this one might be, but…" Marcelle had shrugged. "There is nothing for it." Her eyes had flickered between the hearth and the Warden Commander's face, unsure which of the two was more dangerous. "Anger does terrible things to our judgment, and I cannot bring myself to…blame him for the way he reacted. Were our situations reversed, I might have acted no differently." And in an aside to herself, she had been just as angry, just as devastated, at the death of her mother. She had known all too well what Sebastian felt to condemn him. "I am just…" she had wanted to say disappointed, but that word did not even begin to describe how she felt about the situation. She'd struggled to find the correct words for a few moments before finally shrugging her shoulders and settling back into the seat. "I cannot undo what has been done." Her hand darted out to the small, curiously shaped pendant around her neck. It was a gift; a secret thing from someone who knew what it was _to be. _ "To want to is wasteful."

"No regrets then?"

"None worth having," she had paused, "save one. But that is my fault, not his."

"You fled from this man you seem to understand so well," the Warden Commander had mused, "truly, his wrath must be great. I thought you came to our shores fleeing the Templars."

"I do not fear them. Earthly pain," she had responded quietly, "does not frighten me. They do what they think is best, and we are all better for it. Mages are dangerous." She had smiled a crooked smile, winsome and lovely in the firelight and filled with tremendous understanding. "Even the strongest of us are at risk, myself included. Whatever punishment they should inflict upon me should they find me I will take without complaint or judgment. Men and mages are not equals in power, and this should not be so."

The Warden Commander had drawn back in surprise. "Rumors spoke of your beauty and your heart of gold, but never your self-loathing. My, my," she had said with some amusement, "but you are an enigma. No wonder you've garnered the wrath of a legion of over-sexed men and women and captured the fascination of a prince."

"Fascinated with my death, you mean."

"Death is too simple for a woman like you." The Warden Commander's grey eye had narrowed and her voice dropped low to a tone of smooth and even wisdom. "If he comes after you - which I am sure he will - it could be a tragic end. On the other hand," her tone had risen into the rolling lilt that Marcelle had come to associate with persons of nobility, "it could be the beginning of something better. Beautiful faces have a way of challenging men and changing their minds."

"Maybe," Marcelle had continued to turn the pendant about in her fingers, the stone warm against her flesh. "Perhaps I shall be lucky."

She had made a low grunt in the back of her throat. "You already are lucky. Older than me _and _aging better than I am. Truly, you cannot be a real person."

And some days, Marcelle felt the same way. Mage. Hunted. _Basalit-an_. Champion. Viscountess. She had not sought to rise, but it had happened, and she had broken boundaries as easily as one cracked the shell of an egg. Life had been surreal. And even now, standing as she was in front of the Hero of Ferelden, her brother basking in the chilly morning sunlight alongside his hero and commander, she still did not think she truly existed in reality. The snow created a haze around her vision, obscuring the buildings and the men at arms patrolling the walls of the Vigil; her world nothing more than the gates and the slowly fading path into the City of Amaranthine and beyond. She had lived a life without saying goodbye, and now that life had changed.

Marcelle had never parted from her home or her friends of her own volition before, and it struck her as strange that now was the first moment when she had made a conscious decision to leave. Her friends and her family had all left _her. _It had never been the other way around. Isabela had gone to sea with Fenris and Merrill ("Can't leave my wolf and kitten behind now, can I?") shortly after the fall of the Gallows. Marcelle had declined the invitation to join them, saying she was needed in Kirkwall to help rebuild. With the guards of Kirkwall permanently decommissioned and replaced by the Templars, Aveline and Donnic had reluctantly left for Val Royeaux ("Donnic's brother lives there, and after all that's happened, family is about all we have left now."). Even Varric had said goodbye, having been forced to take over the family's business in the wake of destruction and fear in the city ("Bianca and I aren't going to be able to keep up with you anymore. Someone's got to keep those merchants in line, Hawke. As much as I hate to say it, Kirkwall needs a Tethras to stabilize its economy. It's what we Tethras do best.")

This was the first time Marcelle had the option of staying somewhere, yet she was not. She had been forced out of Ferelden by the Darkspawn, and had been forced out of Kirkwall by the timely warning of a sympathetic Templar. She was not being forced out of the Vigil by anything but her own will.

"Thank you again, Warden Commander," Marcelle said, extending a fur gloved hand to the younger woman, "I cannot thank you enough for the kindness you have shown me."

"Do not thank me yet," the Warden Commander took her hand and gave it a quick shake, her grip firm and her gauntlet cold. "_He_ will come looking for you, and I am in no position to stay the wrath of a prince with my silence. This is not my fight, and I have other concerns to attend to." She placed her other gauntlet on Marcelle's wrist and stepped closer. Her voice fell to a whisper. "But I will try and give you some time. One woman to another."

"I understand," Marcelle replied, "but you do not have to." Her breath comingled with that of the Warden Commander's, just as she had intertwined their lives.

"'Have,'" the Warden Commander countered, "is a matter of perspective." She released Marcelle's hand.

"She won't say anything, Sister," Carver interjected quickly, "don't worry."

Marcelle could only give him a flattered smile and watched the Warden Commander turn an entertained expression to her brother. "She will do what she think is best, I'm sure." When the Warden Commander inclined her head in thanks, Marcelle sent a loving look to her brother. "Slay a few darkspawn for me, Carver."

"You know it."

She had nothing left to say to either of them. Words had exhausted her months ago during the catastrophic series of events in Kirkwall, but Marcelle had recognized that words had been failing her little by little for years. They could only delay the inevitable, they could not halt it, they could only soothe the dying, but they could not bring back the dead. They were a tool; they were not an end. With the river having run dry all she could do was smile, and when she felt as though it might break, she turned and left. The Vigil's gates were open, and the Warden Commander had given her a horse, and she was free to go wherever it was she wanted.

She thought she might return to Lothering.

_To start a life._

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><p><em>The title piece of worth, as well as Sebastian's, "Maker, no!" moment are in my profile. Feel free to stop by there, follow the links to the pictures, and let Lady Winde know you love them. :)<em>


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

The Templars arrived only a handful of days later.

The Warden Commander was alerted to their presence the day before they arrived in her port, the scouts along the coastline of the Waking Sea having been delayed by the weather. She was in her chamber, having just barely gone to sleep, when word reached her.

_Tap. _

_Tap._

_Tap. _

"Commander," said a low voice from the other side of her bedchamber door, "I have a report."

A light sleeper, it was not hard for her to be roused out of sleep and out of bed by the growling timbre of the man beyond the door. Grabbing both the thick robe on the peg of her poster bed, as well as her eye patch from the side table, she slipped them on and opened the door.

Nathaniel Howe in all his black-haired, pale-eyed glory stood on the threshold of the door. He had a letter raised to his chest, clutched between a long, bow-callused forefinger and thumb. "Report from the scouts on the post."

"Do you ever sleep, Nathaniel?" she asked mildly, taking in the sight of him in his polished black leathers.

"About as much as you do," he replied with a smirk. "And only _after _you do."

"Touché," she said with a small tip of her head. She took the letter from him and stepped out into the hallway where the light from the wall sconces was brighter than the fire in her hearth. The door shut behind her with a gentle _click _and the shake of wood on its frame. Resting her back against the stone wall, she pulled apart the leather string that bound the rolled letter into place. It fell out of her fingers, but Nathaniel caught it before it hit the floor, his reflexes just as quick as the Warden Commander expected. "Let's see what the scouts have to say…"

_xAx_

_6 ships._

_Eastward._

_Sails full._

_2 days to Amaranthine._

_Flaming Sword raised._

_xVx_

She offered the missive to Nathaniel, who took it with some curiosity.

"Must he do that?" Nathaniel growled, pointing to the small picture of the griffon being pierced by a rain of arrows showering down on it from above.

"Apparently so," the Warden chuckled, having completely missed the sketch. "Don't pay it any mind. That is just Vidar doing what Vidar does best."

"Being a complete and utter bastard?" Nathaniel scowled. "I wish you were the only one who came back from the Wilds. We could do less with his kind in the Wardens."

"We take all sorts," she sighed and placed a hand on his forearm. "And he is my problem, not yours. I shall keep him in line."

"Sometimes you can't break wild dogs; you have to put them down."

"Nathaniel," the Warden Commander said sharply, and Nathaniel winced and let the matter rest, though not before she heard him mutter, "I can't believe he can even write."

"So, the Chantry is on its way?" he asked after a few moments, raising a thick black eyebrow after having read the tiny, curling script again.

"The Templars," she corrected, "are on their way. If it was the Chantry, they would be flying the Maker's Sun. Not Andraste's Sword."

Nathaniel's pale eyes were lidded with shadow in the gloom. "This has to do with that mage from Kirkwall, doesn't it?"

"I imagine it does, yes."

He sighed. "First that Seeker shows up asking for you, then that mage arrives, and now we've got bloody Templars on our doorstep?" He shook his head. "I don't like this. It feels wrong."

"It does. But you have to admit," she pursed her lips in thought, "things are much more exciting now. Or did you grow bored of simply killing Darkspawn?"

"Can't say I fancy the idea of killing Templars. I'll take the Darkspawn any day."

"We may not have a choice." The Warden Commander's face darkened. "I will not suffer my hospitality to be abused by the Templars again."

Nathaniel raised his eyes to the ceiling, avoiding the chilly stare his Commander had taken on; it always felt as though she was accusing _him _whenever the matter came up. "We have no apostate mages hiding here anymore. Best not to worry."

"We shall see." She hummed to fill the silence that followed. "Did you wake Cauthrien at all?" asked the Warden Commander, looking for a way to excuse herself.

"No, as soon as Varel handed me the letter, I came to see you."

"Well then," she smiled grimly, "I should go tell her that she'll be in charge of the Vigil tomorrow. I have an appointment in the city."

And so the Warden _did _have an appointment in the city. After leaving the Vigil with the first sweep of dawn's light, she made her way to Amaranthine City and its large port. Since it had been reconstructed, the city had nearly doubled in size and its ports had quadrupled with the burgeoning bustle of trade from Orlais and the Free Marches. While trade from the Free Marches had dwindled, Orlais was still a wealthy trading partner and sent regular merchant ships to Amaranthine (but much to Alistair's regret, _not _to Denerim).

Members of the Silver Order were patrolling the docks, having taken up the role as Amaranthine's city guards as well as military defenders. The bright white of their armor mingled with the snow drifts, causing the Warden Commander to shield her face from the glare. She could only lament that her own duller, more resolutely grey armor probably offered her better protection that the silverite armor that members of the Order wore, though it looked nowhere near as stylish.

The day began all around her. Amaranthine City came alive with the crowing of roosters and the whickering of horses. Doors creaked, children yelled, hawkers sold their wares, and merchants crept out of their boats as their dockhands worked. No one paid the Warden Commander any mind and merely tipped their heads out of respect for her presence.

It was only a little after midmorning when the ships bearing the Flaming Sword of Andraste sailed into view. The Warden Commander had brushed several finger widths of snow from her shoulders and her hood over the course of the hours she had stood at the pier waiting for them, and was relieved to know that she wouldn't have to do so anymore. With the snow and the wind whistling around her, she stood still and silent as she watched a contingent of the Chantry's fist assemble itself on the dock of the first ship to dock, and then march down a plank that had been slipped into place for them by a quick-thinking dockhand.

The leader of the Templars was a sour looking man with thick sideburns and a mess of bushy hair that swirled about his face in the stormy weather. The Warden Commander half expected the man to just barrel right over her, for he did not stop walking until he was but a nose lengths away. He glared at her, and in response, she raised one elegantly shaped eyebrow.

"I am Ser Karras," he said airily, "Knight-Lieutenant of Kirkwall's Templar Order, and I have come to Amaranthine, to Ferelden, to hunt a known and dangerous apostate. You, Serrah, are in my way."

"And well met to you, Ser Karras. Welcome to Amaranthine," the Warden Commander smiled and touched her gauntlet to her breastplate, emphasizing the laurel crowned griffon emblem on its front, "I am Commander Cousland, First of the Grey Wardens and the Arlessa of Amaranthine." Her rank and titles did not seem to impress him. He merely a gave a wet snort that misted across the Warden's face like a rank wind. Lowering her hand to her side, she rested it casually on the hilt of her sword. "Do tell me more about this known and dangerous apostate. If they are a threat, it is my duty to protect my people."

"It is official Templar business," Ser Karras replied. "And none of your concern. Be only aware that they are dangerous, and that none of your countrymen should seek to harbor this mage."

"What was the crime?" the Warden Commander asked.

"Besides being _born _a mage?"

"Yes."

"To unlawfully escape the Circle should prove the mage's intent clear enough."

The Warden Commander smacked her lips loudly, the pop echoing all the way to the end of the docks. "Is there a lawful way to escape the Circle?"

The Knight-Lieutenant glowered at from behind his thick blond eyelashes. "You are testing my patience."

"My apologies." The Warden Commander didn't mean it. Not in the slightest. "My patience is quite limitless, and I have yet to receive the answers to all of my questions."

"You are risking the lives of your fellow Fereldans if you delay me!"

"It has been my experience," she replied, schooling her tone and her face into an even and placid mask, "that mages are not the only dangers to the Fereldan countryside.

Ser Karras puffed up like a peacock and inhaled sharply. "What a rank accusation!"

"Accusation it is not." The Warden's steel grey eye met his, "my dislike for mages extends only a little beyond my dislike for the Templars, and it would be in _your _best interests to cooperate with _me._"

"I don't have time for this. I don't have to cooperate with a Dog Lord."

The Warden Commander chuckled. "I wish I still had my 'dog.' Go then. Feel free to make port in Denerim." The Warden Commander extended her hand to his ship. "I am sure King Alistair will not deny you."

"King 'I Freed the Fereldan Circle' Alistair?" Ser Karras scowled and his entire expression became one continuous line of sideburns and eyebrows. His face sat that way for several moments, and the Warden Commander thought it would remain fixed there permanently. Unfortunately, when he shook his head and pursed his lips, the comical expression vanished. "Fah, and it'll take us ages to get to Gwaren."

"Because Teyrna Anora is very sympathetic to the Templars, I am sure," replied the Warden Commander in a droll voice. "Come, Ser Karras, surely it is better to cooperate with me than face the alternatives. All I ask for is to be briefed."

"How much will you want of my time?"

The Warden Commander swayed her head from side to side as she thought. "A day, I think. We can speak in the Chantry." She gestured behind her to where the Chantry sat on the cliff overlooking the docks. All that was visible were its tall spires, but there was no mistaking the flag that flew from the highest peak. "Your men would have to stay aboard the ship."

Ser Karras spent several long moments staring between the Chantry and his ship before he gave a curt nod. "Very well then, Commander Cousland. I will answer your questions. But I will give you no more than a half-day's worth of my time. We have to search your city and your Arling."

"Under my supervision, of course." The Warden Commander gave the man a pleasant smile. "It will make them so much more likely to cooperate with you if they know there is a Grey Warden or a member of the Silver Order nearby."

"I…" He clenched his jaw. "Fine. Just do not have your men slow me down."

"Efficiency is what we do best in Amaranthine."

The lie was well served, and it allowed the Warden Commander to lead the Knight-Lieutenant into the Chantry and occupy his attention for the better part of the day. She questioned him, and allowed herself to be questioned, dropping hints and weaving lies about magical on goings in the city and in the surrounding country side to keep him interested and talking. She could not hold him when evening came, and as the Chantry closed its doors for the evening, Ser Karras and the Warden Commander were forced to vacate it.

"I hope your curiosity," Ser Karras said rather bitterly when he noticed how dark the sky was, "has been sated, Commander."

"It has been," she nodded. "Hopefully, you are better equipped to hunt apostates in my territory?" She chuckled when she heard his stomach rumble behind the thick sheets of armor he wore. "Or at least better equipped you to hunt your dinner!"

"Dinner would be the least you could offer us," Ser Karras groused, "for the delay you've caused us."

"Well, there are taverns aplenty in Amaranthine that are open well into the night. I am sure your men will find something. Come," she placed a gauntlet on his elbow and gestured to the docks that lurked somewhere below in the dark just beyond the line of buildings, "I'll return you to them."

Ser Karras followed the Warden Commander mutely, shadowing her steps in the night. He watched with some amusement when he saw her steps falter upon returning to the dock. Six ships bearing the Flaming Sword were anchored in the deep water beyond the dock, while another six were resting along the long piers. The reserve fleet from Val Royeaux had arrived just behind them, it seemed.

"I had best get my Templars unloaded from the boats," Ser Karras said in a smug voice, "so that we can make room for your merchant ships. It would be a pity if my fleet cut off trade to Amaranthine."

"Oh yes," replied the Warden Commander mildly. "A pity indeed."

The Knight-Lieutenant watched her face for some sort of reaction, but found her face to be a perfect reflection of the moonlit night. He frowned and turned to the ships, bellowing an order into the night air that rang as clear as a clarion call.

A few moments later, a great shuffling was heard. It was the stampede of boots along wood and the clattering of armor against armor. Men and women, helmed and shining, piled out from below decks into the moonlight and sparkled like stars against the reflection of the water. They had all followed the Warden Commander's orders not to leave the ship, but that had not stopped them from their docking procedures. Templars walked two by two down the planks leading from the ship, filing side by side into the night. They lined up along the dock and in the streets, forming their contingents and standing still in place until Ser Karras decided to address them again.

"Will you be staying in Ferelden long, Ser Karras?" The Warden Commander's eye narrowed as a Templar brushed so close to her that his pauldron scraped hers. The Templar muttered at her to, "watch herself," which had the Commander putting her hand on her hip so that the Templar was forced to scrape his armor against her spike tipped couter. She smiled in grim satisfaction.

Ser Karras shook his head. "No. I, personally am going south."

"To the Circle Tower?" She quirked an eyebrow.

"Yes. And eventually to Lothering."

"Are you supplementing the Chantry there?"

Ser Karras only smiled, and it was a terrible thing filled with malicious intent. "Something like that, yes. Now, if you will excuse me, my lady, I have orders from the Knight-Vigilant to attend to and men to feed."

"And how many Templars are you leaving with me? When you told me a _battalion _I was not expecting twelve ships' worth."

"I am leaving Ser Hagan with you," he pointed to a Templar with a green plumed helm, "and his fifty men. They will be all you'll need to…handle any apostate problems you might have. The rest of the men I cannot spare."

The Warden Commander smiled in acknowledgement, but behind her full lips she was grinding her teeth. Short of physically manhandling the Templars back onto the boat, there was nothing the Warden Commander could do to stop Ser Karras and his Templars from passing, and she could only watch with some alarm as yet _more _ships bearing burning sword sails approached from the distance, ghostly specters hovering over the cold and misty waters of the Waking Sea. It occurred to her then that this was not a mere witch hunt; this was _war._

* * *

><p><em>Those of you who follow <em>Trovommi Amor_ will know who "V" is. Rejoice: he survives at least -this- long. ;) _

_We shall continue to revise and post as time allows. We'll get back to Hawke and Sebastian in the next chapter, I promise! Just had to set the stage for how dangerous Ferelden has become for apostates living all by their lonesome... _


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

She always liked Lothering in the winter.

It cast a sort of magic over the town, hiding the hovels with their dank, dirty exteriors and covering the shoddy patchwork on their roofs. Shacks became cottages trundled in snow and weed covered paths became pristine carpets. No man needed to be ashamed of their means, for every man's home became a palace of winter white. From the poorest of homes to the richest, when the snow began to pile it was difficult to tell the difference between the two. Under the snow, all homes looked the same.

The winter snow also helped cover the fields that some years bordered on barren, disguising one of the town's many woes with a blanket of fluffy merriment. Farmers with strong backs gave way to children with spry limbs who tumbled in the snow and built castles like the ones their mothers described to them. No child had to worry about being plucked from his friends by a hungry wolf or a wandering bear. They could play without fear, as the winter forced the beasts into their dens.

All in all, winter was very good to Lothering.

And despite it being nearly a decade since Marcelle had last seen Lothering, despite all the damage, despite the Blight's destruction… it was exactly how she remembered it. From Barlin's wagon being left in the middle of his field to gather snow, to the Chantry's garden markers - nothing had changed. Those who had survived Lothering's destruction had returned, and they had rebuilt.

Fenris had once asked her what someone did when they stopped running, and she had responded rather practically, "Settle down and start a life."

It was clear that the villagers of Lothering had restarted their lives. Marcelle thought she could do the same.

She was certain that she could start her life here again. It would not be so difficult; she had already lived such a life before. Her family's cottage was vacant and had been left to the decay of time, but she could fix it. Growing up she had learned to chop firewood, plant seeds, tend a field, make repairs when needed… yes, she could return to the way things were before she'd fled. And as she shoveled snow away from the wooden door that hung rotten from its hinges, she felt a surge of pride and resolve. Living here would not be impossible, and more importantly, Lothering _needed _her.

She had passed the grave of Elder Miriam on her way into town, the woman's headstone having marked her as having passed that summer. The town was without a healer, without an herbalist. Marcelle was capable of giving Lothering both of these things, if Lothering would accept her.

Marcelle spent that first night huddled in a corner of her old home, using her magic to cast a weak warding spell on the door and a small fire in the hearth. The furniture was mostly gone having been stolen by looters, as had many of her family's remaining possessions. All that was left were a few rusted, copper pots and a gnarled table in the corner that had once been where the Hawke family had eaten their meals. She used to sit at the table with Bethany and listen to their father talk to them about magic and its uses. She had sat there playing cards with Carver the night before the Darkspawn had come. Her last meal on that table had been a piece of gristly beef and boiled potatoes… that table held many memories. As her eyes began to droop, she thought herself fortunate that it hadn't been taken.

When sleep came, so did the Fade. She was ensconced in its velvety embrace and watched as the land twisted and changed itself around her to meet her heart's desire.

Since fleeing Kirkwall, the Fade had appeared mostly the same; it always molded itself into the high spires and hypnotic chanting of the Kirkwall Chantry. A specter of Grand Cleric Elthina ghosted around the upper levels of the dream Chantry, while below her came the low and steady humming of supplicants in prayer. The Maker's Bride stood tall and steadfast, her hands stretched high to the Maker, but for all the intricacies of the dream the Fade could never get Andraste's face _quite _right. It changed each time Marcelle saw it. Sometimes she smiled, sometimes her eyes were closed. Her cheeks were either gaunt, or they were full, sometimes her nose was long, and other times it existed not at all. Sometimes she had no face. The Fade did not welcome Andraste's visage, but it knew it was necessary for the dream to be authentic.

Sebastian was there, as he always was. But it was not really Sebastian. It was a figment of Marcelle's imagination, or a desire demon, or maybe both. Marcelle did not quite know; she had not gone over to speak to him. She only sat on one of the pews and watched him as he paced on the sanctuary above her. He walked with his head bowed and his brow furrowed, his blue eyes fixed firmly on the floor as he stalked its length. His long fingered hands would sometimes grasp one of the railings of the chancel as he peered into its gloom to stare at the holy relics that were on display.

Marcelle had spent all her dreaming hours here watching him – how he used to be; when Sebastian had been a priest and her friend; not a prince and her enemy.

Often, Sebastian did nothing more than pace and pray as she looked on. Sometimes an echo of his voice would float down to her, some chant or prayer that she had heard him recite being plucked from her dreaming mind. His little pearls of wisdom and unshakable faith were soothing.

On rare occasions Sebastian would sing. They were all hymns from the Chant of Light (for that was all Marcelle had ever heard him sing), but they were exquisite. Sebastian was beautiful when he had his head tilted back and he was raising his voice in exultation. In those dreams, Marcelle would often be forced to cover her heart with her hand in fear that it would burst out of her chest at the sight and sound of his pure, sonorous voice.

But this was not such a dream. Sebastian's steps were heavy on the thick carpets and his voice was not raised in song. He seemed troubled about something, because he was constantly running his hands over his face and hair and his lips were pursed in thought. Marcelle was about to dispel the dream's illusion and wake up when she heard him speak:

"Maker," said Sebastian, stopping mid stride, "hear my prayer." He turned his face up to the Chantry's roof, his head falling backwards as if he was welcoming raindrops or snowflakes, "forgive me, O Merciful One, for I have sinned."

Before vengeance and anger had consumed him, Sebastian had been a man of kindness, charity, and faith. He was everything a woman could want because he was handsome and was possessed of a warm and rich nature. But like the snow falling outside of her shack as she dreamed, he was pure and unblemished. It was true, he'd had a sordid past, but whatever misdeeds he had committed in his youth had been swept away by the waves of Andraste's love. He lived only to serve Her, and to preach His word. All other worldly concerns passed beneath his notice.

This included Marcelle, much to her chagrin. She had not been a particularly strict Andrastian, having never really had the opportunity to set foot inside a Chantry before. She had never been inside Lothering's Chantry, as she had been warned away from it by her father ("You're a Hawke, not a lamb for the slaughter. The Maker will hear you wherever you pray."). As a mage – an apostate mage – entering a Chantry was as good as turning one's self over to the Templars directly, for they were everywhere in such hallowed halls.

But for some reason she had braved the Kirkwall Chantry.

She did not lack for faith, nor had she felt the need to confess. It had not been to taunt the Templars, nor had it been at her mother's doing. She had walked into the lion's den, and she'd done it for _him. _

Initially, it had been to tell him that his family's murderers were dead. Beneath the watchful eyes of the Templars, she'd skirted around the Chantry's alcoves until she'd found him nestled away in one of the nooks reading a scroll. He'd been surprised to see her and even more surprised to hear her news. After clasping her shoulders and beaming at her, he'd darted out to meet the Viscount and left her alone amidst the stacks and the accusatory stares of the Templar guards.

But she'd gone back, Maker help her. Despite the danger, she went back for him and his smile.

At first she had sat in the back rows of the pews and listened to him recite the Chant. Hidden by the glare of the sun and her mother's graying shawl she watched him and prayed with him. Over the course of a year she grew bolder. Some days she would take her place in the back of the Chantry, forgoing the shawl and relying on only the shadows for cover. Other days she would keep the shawl but sit closer. Escaping his notice under the faded silk, she could peer up at him from over the tops of penitent fingertips.

And then one day she lost both her shawl and her fear, sitting in the front row of the Chantry without cover.

It was the same day he had noticed her.

"Serrah Hawke?" he had called as she was leaving, and she turned to find him standing in a ray of sunlight that trickled down from the large glass window that towered above them. Dust motes were swirling around his head, crowning him and setting his dark hair ablaze.

"Brother Sebastian," she had said with a shy smile, tilting her head forward in acknowledgement. Hair fell over her shoulder, and she saw the quick, almost timid way his eyes darted between the movement of her hair and her face.

"I thought it was you…" he smiled kindly at her and put a hand to his chest, "I'll admit, I had not thought to see you again after what you did for me and my family."

This had caused her to chuckle and she had moved a few steps closer. Her skirts had swayed around her legs as she moved. The rustle of the thick, brown fabric was drowned out by the low and steady chanting all around them. "And why would you think that?"

"A woman of your skill and talent?" Sebastian's eyebrows had raised and his smile tightened. "I thought you would have left Kirkwall long behind you by now."

"My family is here," she had replied, folding her hands in front of her, "as are my friends. Kirkwall is my home now."

Sebastian had licked his lips and opened his mouth to speak, but at the last moment he seemed to think better of it. A mouth that moved to form words turned up into a smile and he tilted his head jovially. "It is mine as well."

A pause then fell between them, and in the silence Marcelle had lifted her skirts and raised her head, observing the Chantry as she swirled towards Sebastian. "I have been coming here for nearly a year now," she'd said, her eyes on the statues of Andraste flanking the chancel.

"You must have been sitting in the back row then," Sebastian had chuckled sheepishly, "for I had not noticed."

She came to stand shoulder to shoulder with him; he faced forward and she faced backward. She had tilted her head towards his, as if leaning in to whisper a secret. Her hair had brushed against his fingertips at the movement, and the feel of his fingers rubbing against the ends of her hair had caused her to flick her eyes from Andraste to his face. "I imagine I must blend in with the other worshippers."

Sebastian had quickly shaken his head. "I could recognize you anywhere." His eyes had widened when he realized what he'd said, and he only seemed more taken aback by the large smile that Marcelle had wielded against him in retaliation.

At such close proximity, Marcelle had been able to count the fleck of gold hidden in the deep blue of his eyes. "Just not in a crowded Chantry?" she had teased gently. "You have a lovely speaking voice, Sebastian. The Maker has blessed you with such a gift to recite His words."

Sebastian's cheeks had turned a deep shade of red at her praise. He quickly bowed his head in thanks. "I…you are too kind, Lady Hawke. Thank you." His feet had shuffled away from her with a mind of their own, flanking her, trying to escape the soft, blue stare that she had levied at him from over her shoulder.

"I speak only the truth," she had replied, craning her neck as far as it would go. When Sebastian circled behind her, she had ducked her head and closed her eyes. A breeze had tickled her hand, and opening her eyes she saw that Sebastian had reappeared on her opposite side rather than walking way.

"Do you think you will keep coming to the Chantry?" he had asked.

"I will most certainly try." She had tucked a lock of hair behind her ear before continuing, "I will be going into the Deep Roads soon, Sebastian. So I may not attend services for some time."

"The Deep Roads?" Sebastian had said the words as though scandalized. "What would drive you there?"

"A lot of things," she had admitted rather candidly. "Some easily fixed, some not. My family has debts to pay, and this shall, hopefully, pay them all."

"I have never been in the Deep Roads, but I have heard there are foul things that lurk within them. You must," he had said, touching his hand to her arm, "be careful."

"I will be the soul of caution." Her laughter had come from deep within her chest, a subtle and mellow sound. "I promise."

"Would you," Sebastian's eyes had been bright, "like me to pray for you – your, ah, safe return?" His blinks had been quick as he tripped and stumbled over his words.

"I would like that very much, Brother Sebastian." With a sudden movement she had twirled to face him and captured his warm, sun-beaten hand between her own. She had given it a shake in thanks, memorizing the feel of his skin down to its tiniest imperfections. "I would like that very much." Her thumbs had traced thick pads and scars that hinted at a background less than peaceful.

"I'll, ah, do that for you then!" Though his smile had been sincere, his eyes had belied his calm exterior. Large and blue, they were wide in surprise, wonderment, but also fear.

Moments of awkward silence had passed between them, Sebastian's bow-worn hand resting between Marcelle's, their eyes dancing circles around the other's face, catching only glimpses of each other from their corners. Sebastian had crumbled quickly and mumbled some excuse that the Grand Cleric needed to see him, leaving Marcelle to the sunlight and dust motes.

As she had promised, she had come back to the Chantry, both before the Deep Roads and after she attended. Beyond listening to Sebastian recite the Chant, she found she liked _being _there. She enjoyed the quiet chanting and the drowsy smell of burning elfroot and spindleweed, but her greatest pleasure was in her anonymity. She had once feared that the Chantry might expose her, but her fears were unfounded. When she was there, she was approached by worshippers and practioners not as a _Fereldan _or a _Mage _or even as _Hawke _or _Champion. _ She was simply Marcelle. And if she could cast spells on the sick who came to pray for a cure, or lay a cloth on a sick child's head, then it was all the better.

But even with all her fond memories, this Sebastian and this Chantry were not real, and Marcelle wrapped her arms around herself bitterly at the reminder as she watched Sebastian pace.

"I have sinned, Maker. I have had," Sebastian closed his eyes and visibly swallowed, "impure thoughts about a woman, stirring feelings in me that I vowed to forswear. She comes to me at night when my eyes are closed, haunting my dreams while I sleep. I can feel her hands on me, touching me…polluting me. I swore to take Andraste as my only bride, but this temptress…she would have me do things to her that only a husband should do to a wife…" His hands came up to rest against his neck, shaking against his skin, "Sometimes, I am powerless and I cannot fight her. When I awake, I have to…" his fingers curled into his hair, "take myself in hand and…"

Marcelle stood abruptly and gathered the skirts of her robe about her. Her cheeks were hot and flushed and her fingers were trembling as she gathered the wool into her fist. She stumbled down between the pews, fleeing to the doors of the Chantry. This was something she was not meant to hear, and indeed, she had never heard Sebastian even speak such words. Her hands felt for the door handles, fingers grasping around the solid gold curves. She tugged hard on them, trying to warp the Fade to her will to see the door swing open, but like so many other doors in the Fade they were locked. All she managed to do was clatter the door in its frame, the sound echoing down the pews like the rolling of thunder.

At the noise, Sebastian's sinful confession stopped. In its place came the rushing of wind. Marcelle did not even have the chance to look over her shoulder before something soft and insidious pinned her to the double doors, a specter forming from the breeze.

The wood was cold against her heated cheek, but the hand drawing her hair away from her neck and the breath puffing against her skin was scorchingly hot.

"Marcelle," Sebastian whispered in her ear, leaning his weight against her back as he did so, "I have been waiting so long for you…" His tongue, hot and moist, flicked at the underside of her ear, causing Marcelle to squirm. "So long, dear one…"

"No," Marcelle hissed, trying to pulling away from the mockery of Sebastian. A hand was placed at her hip to her force her still, the fingers bunching the fabric of her robe and tugging roughly at the edges of the binder about her waist. "Please, stop!"

"Stop? _Stop? _You are always in my thoughts," Sebastian growled, "always with me. Wherever I walk, wherever I go, you hound me. You nip," his teeth grazed the shell of her ear, "at my heels. You've demanded my attention, my affections, and now you want none of them?"

"Sebastian would _never,_" she tried to pluck the hand at her hip away, "_ever _have continued if I told him to stop! You are," she shut her eyes tightly, "_not _Sebastian." She twisted and railed against the desire demon's embrace, which only caused it to laugh. "Unhand me, demon!"

"_I _am the demon?" Sebastian crooned. "Oh, you little _minx. _You little _temptress,_" Sebastian's mouth worked over her cheek and down her neck, "do you think I can't see through this illusion? I _know _you've been watching me. I _know _you've planted your image in my mind with your magic, so that whenever I close my eyes it is only _you _I see. Oh, Hawke," he rubbed his nose against the column of her throat and inhaled deeply, "I will have no more of this teasing."

"I will have no more of _your _treachery!" Marcelle's hands glowed hot and white, and she pressed them against the bare flesh of the hand at her hip and the hand that had slithered around to grasp her neck.

Sebastian only shushed her and pulled her closer. He splayed his hand across her stomach and drew her flush against him. He slipped the hand at her neck down her chest to the neck of her robes, slipping below it to rest on the skin above her heart. There he caressed her gently, rough hands surprisingly tender in their touch. "Don't you see? I feel like Andraste," Sebastian's voice was hoarse and his lips ghosted over her ear, "called to the Maker's side, forced to never sing of simple things… because nothing about you is simple, Hawke. I only sing for you."

The sound of his frustrated, anguished sigh stilled the fight in Marcelle's body, the magic in her hands fizzling into nothingness. That part of her that had become responsive to Sebastian's needs and concerns overtook the part of her that extolled common sense and reason. This was a _demon. _This was _not _Sebastian. Yet, she was compelled to _listen _to him. She had to _help _him.

"I never wanted this," he spoke bitterly. "I thought I could…push you out of my mind, but you are always there." The hand against Marcelle's heart retreated, the unearthly warmth of his hand leaving a cold ache where it had once been. Fingertips trailed over her robe and up her neck to her lips, snaking between them to glide along her tongue. "Your words torment me."

Her head tilted back as he stroked the length of her tongue and Marcelle could taste the wrongness on his fingers, the salt, blood, and ash that lingered on his skin. She was trembling as he dragged his fingers back down her chin, down her neck, to the top of her robe, leaving a wet trail in their wake. Long, callused fingers parted the cloth that covered her and skillfully tugged on toggles and pulled on strings until flesh met flesh.

"But despite the pain you cause me, you are always here," his fingertips skirted over her left breast, scraping against the bud of her nipple in an almost contrite fashion. "You are always with me here in my heart. I will never be free of you."

"This is not how it should be," Marcelle gasped, trying to fight through the haze of confusion that had fallen over her mind. There was pain and lust, and _crippling _want. "Please, please stop. Take anything else from me," she begged, "but not this. If you value anything at all, please do not sully this. Not _him. _Please, do not…" She shrunk from the touch of his hand, but only found herself pressed against the hard plain of his chest. "There were so many _other _faces you could wear, so many…"

"I cannot deny the truth anymore, Hawke. Nor can I continue to fight you." Sebastian planted a gentle kiss on the curve of her neck. The hand he had at her waist removed what was left of the binder, ripping the fastenings easily. Her robe fell open and revealed the pale expanse of her creamy skin, all but exposed save for the covering of her smalls. "Do not deny me this. Do not deny me you."

Around them, the world crumbled. The Chantry fell to pieces. Pillars shattered, ash flew through the air, and the statues of Andraste melted under searing heat and intense winds. Sebastian wrapped his arms protectively around her and held her tightly enough that his armor bit into her flesh and drew blood. It ran in rivulets down her ribs and arms, dotting the tops of her smalls. But no matter how much destruction raged around them, nothing touched her in Sebastian's embrace. Even when he moved his hands to sweep the robes from her shoulders she felt nothing; not even the faintest stirring of the wind.

Mesmerized, Marcelle could do nothing but watch the world burn as Sebastian undressed her. Her robes were puddle on the floor around her, mixing with the torn and burnt rags that used to be the Chantry's pennants. Ash stained and dirty, her smalls were tossed to the side and came to rest beside the blood stained robes of a Sister who had been crushed by a falling pillar.

"Magic has corrupted man," he said quietly from behind her, "and no one, not even you, is safe. I could protect you, if you would let me." His hands leisurely stroked along the curves of her body, fingers trailing from the edges of her breasts to the bottom of her hips. "I could protect your soul, Hawke. I could…" one hand laid itself flat across her stomach, "protect your body."

The delicate hairs on Marcelle's body stood on end and her chest heaved as she fought for breath. Her heart raced in her chest and her lips became dry. Her skin felt hypersensitive, and every brush of Sebastian's fingers sent shocks of electricity through her body.

"If you were to die, I would have nothing left. Give yourself to me," he whispered, one hand exploring the curve of her belly while the other held her hand in his, "and I will truly know the Maker's earthly glory."

Marcelle could make no sound as his hand ventured lower, skimming first the tops of her hips, his touch hot and teasing, and then down to the thatch of curls between her legs. He cupped her, his palm grazing wiry curls, while he slipped a long finger along the tight seam of her thighs. He curled it upward until he came to the junction of her sex. She gave a hoarse cry of surprise and need as his finger dipped between her legs and stroked at that secret place that had given her comfort on lonely nights. He circled her bud lightly and her hips bucked against his palm. Her common sense parted as easily as her legs, and she clung to the steady arm he had wrapped across her breasts to hold her up.

"I'll be gentle," Sebastian promised, "I promise. Have faith in me, Hawke."

She had thought herself nearly beyond comprehension, but Marcelle managed to understand at least one of Sebastian's words. "Faith…" Marcelle echoed, the word resonating somewhere deep within her. "_Faith._"

Marcelle had once been told by First Enchanter Orsino that mages such as she were a rarity amongst Circles. Those who had the gift to call upon spirits often did not talk about it, and those who did often found themselves at the sharp end of a blade. Most Templars did not make the distinction between a mage who talked to spirits and a mage who talked to demons – to the Templar Order both situations were equally bad and posed the same risks.

Orsino had been fascinated about her affinity for spirits and they spoke frequently about the topic when Marcelle went to the Circle Tower. As First Enchanter, had much to share about those mages he had known who shared in her gift. And as someone who actually interacted with a spirit on a regular basis, she had only been too happy to share her experiences. Most of her words, however, were ones of warning and caution. Marcelle did not disagree with most of the Templars' assumptions, which caused contention in many of their conversations.

Naturally, Orsino had been interested in where she'd learned such an ability from, and she'd confided in him that she had inherited the talent from her father. While she had received magical instruction from her father, it was only on the eve of his death that she found her calling. The night before he died, Marcelle had entered the Fade and there she had met a Spirit of Faith. He (for the spirit identified himself as male) had come to greet her and to explain to her that her father's mortal body was quickly passing and his spirit would soon slip beyond the Veil. Upon waking, Marcelle never thought that she would see the Spirit of Faith again, but the next night when she went to sleep he was there. Faith had been waiting in the Fade for her, and after testing the strength of her will and the depth of her conviction, he pledged to aid her as he had helped her father.

And helped her he had. Faith had been a constant source of strength for Marcelle. He had bolstered her weakened spirits after the death of her mother, and had sustained her through her battle with the Arishok, and later Meredith. He wanted nothing in return for his assistance, save for Marcelle to stay strong and _believe. _Her relationship with Faith was nothing like Anders's relationship with Justice. Faith was not a physical part of Marcelle. He did not inhabit her body and show himself when she lost control. Rather, Faith lurked on the other side of the Veil, close enough within reach to augment and supplement her abilities, but far enough away that he would never know the mortal realm.

Faith preferred it this way. His home was the Fade, and he was content to remain there. As a consequence, he knew its intricacies, as well as all of Marcelle's dreams and memories. This was why he was waiting at the edge of the Chantry's staircase with his sword and shield drawn. White and shining amidst the ruins of the Chantry, he was a blinding sight amidst the blue and grey skyline. "Unhand her, foul demon!" His bright armor was emblazoned with arcane symbols that only he could read, and the long sword he pointed at Sebastian was wickedly sharp and curved.

"Have you taken other lovers besides me, Hawke?" growled Sebastian, long, black claws growing from his fingertips. He pushed a stunned and naked Marcelle to the ground before lunging over her to slash at Faith.

Marcelle's head was spinning with the desire demon's magic. She cupped her cheeks in her hands and shook her head quickly, trying to clear away the demon's influence. Without its attentions focused on her, it was easier for her to get a hold of herself. She scrabbled in the dirt for her robes, pulling them around her. She tossed her voluminous robe around her shoulders and tried to slip her left arm into her right sleeve.

At a loud grunt from Faith, Marcelle decided to forgo the robes completely. She stood on shaky legs and had a cantrip on her lips, ready to take action. But upon observation, Faith had everything well in hand. He had already hacked the arms off the desire demon and was raising his sword above his head for the final blow (and Marcelle was thankful that the demon had chosen to return to its natural form rather than fight in Sebastian's image), but when his blade swung down he met only empty air. Marcelle had beaten him to the killing blow with a bolt of brilliant, blue energy that blasted the demon's head clear off its shoulders.

Faith sheathed his sword and waved the shield on his arm away back into the Fade. He tipped his helmet at her, waiting for her to speak.

"Thank you, Faith," Marcelle said with a pained smile. She ran her hands up and down her arms to ward off the cold of the dream. "I would likely have given into the demon, had you not intervened."

Faith gave a sudden bark of laughter, the sound echoing inside his helmet. "You give yourself too little credit, fledgling! You would have resisted."

She raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps, eventually."

"You _would _have resisted."

She sighed and shook her head. "I suppose," Marcelle was not so certain, but found that debating such matters with Faith was often silly. Faith was very convinced he was right. Turning her back on him to hide her shameful expression, she went to gather her robes. She crouched in the ruins of the Chantry and gathered the cloth into her arms. She groaned in embarrassment as Faith held up undergarments that had somehow been slit down their seams without her knowledge. "I cannot wear those," Marcelle said, taking them quickly from Faith's hand and tossing them over her shoulder. "A lost cause," she murmured, trying to cover her nakedness with her hands.

Faith was disinterested in her body's nudity. While embarrassed to be standing naked in front of her spirit, she knew that Faith had no real opinions about the human form. The Maker had made it thusly. So, it simply _was. _Just as the Maker had made _him. _And he simply _was. _She reckoned that the mortal form was not really all that exciting or titillating. He had likely seen worse on a demon. But that still didn't ease her discomfort, which was only made worse by Faith's helpfulness. Taking her robes from her hands, Faith bade her stand and helped his mage into them. He held them out and helped her slip one arm, then the other into them. Gathering the binder that went about her waist, Faith held it up to her ribs while she tied it into place.

"It was always a demon," he explained matter-of-factly as she worked. "I hope you knew that, fledgling."

"Why do you think," Marcelle said with a wry smile, "I never spoke to it? It waited a long time." She clasped the toggles on the neck of her robe shut.

"It did," Faith agreed. "But then such demons can wait Years uncountable for what they want."

"Mortals cannot."

"The Maker made you far too transient in your interests and your passions for such a thing to be possible."

"Some things stay with us," disagreed Marcelle. She straightened the collar of her robe and then tugged on her sleeves. "Some things we can never let go of." She thought of Sebastian as she said this, and Faith seemed to guess who was on her mind.

"And such things are the food on which these demons feast." He placed a heavy hand on her shoulder. "Either believe that he will come for you, or believe that he has forgotten you. Do not linger in between, for you make yourself prey."

"I am trying. I…just do not know which of the two to believe." She offered him a small smile. "I have never been alone before."

"Fledgling, you are never alone." His grip softened. "You always have Faith."

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 3 illustration by Lady Winde is up in my profile. <em>

_Thank you to everyone who has been reviewing and alerting! My phone has been beeping nonstop with alerts, and it tickles me. :)_


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Beyond rebuilding her family's old home, there was little for Marcelle to during those first few weeks. On the days when she felt particularly daring, she would go out into the town and reacquaint herself with the villagers of Lothering. She found that most of them were new, having come to resettle the area with the King's blessing, but some of them were familiar faces. Old Barlin had welcomed her with a tight hug that had lifted her from her feet despite his advanced age. He had been surprised to see her, but had mentioned just how blessed Lothering was to have her back in its midst.

Old Barlin was kind to Marcelle. He knew that it was too early for her to have established a garden by which to feed herself, and he took it upon himself to make sure that she was fed every day. Whether Marcelle awoke to find a sack of stored grain resting in the furrow beside her door, or received an invitation to come to the tavern for dinner, there was not a day that Marcelle knew hunger. Barlin had also been kind enough to give her the supplies she'd needed to reconstruct her family's home, even going as far as to give her spare planks of wood that had been left over from the reconstruction of Dane's Refuge. "Take 'em with my blessing, girl," he'd said, patting her fondly on her shoulder as she'd staggered back to her home with her arms full of wood and tools under a frosty evening sky.

Hole by hole, the Hawke Family home slowly began to be repaired. Each repair signaled a new victory, and when there was nothing left to repair, each new victory came in the form of some piece of furniture or knickknack that Marcelle collected. Her first acquisition had been a new door, followed by a small bed and a pair of chairs. She did not want for money, having brought most of her personal wealth with her when she had fled Kirkwall, and so these purchases came easily (and discreetly). Food was easy to come by as well, since Barlin always kept something for her at Dane's Refuge.

She never ventured into town as far as the Chantry, always keeping to her father's rule that she was never to pass beyond the blacksmith's house. Any closer and she ran the risk of being spotted by Templars. While being seen was not necessarily a guarantee of capture, the Templars of Lothering were notorious for their interactions with the townsfolk. A talkative Templar and a skittish young apostate not fully in control of their magic was not the best combination. Malcolm had feared that his children, frightened by the presence of the men and women who could take them away, would inadvertently seek to defend themselves. Bethany had almost given the family away when she was thirteen by spontaneously bursting into flames in front of the family's house. She had been spooked by the sound of the blacksmith dropping some supplies he was carrying along the road, as the clang of metal against metal sounded like the clattering of fast-approaching armor. It had only been the timely intervention of Carver dumping the bucket of muddy farm water he was carrying over her that had hidden their secret.

While Marcelle was older and much more capable of controlling herself, there was some comfort in obeying her father's rules. They were familiar and reminded her of a better time. However, she did not let this rule stop her from leaving her home and mingling with the townsfolk in their taverns and along the streets. It was better that they considered her one of their own sooner rather than later. By slowly blending in, introducing herself to one person at a time, she was able to insinuate herself into the community. It was best that come the spring that the people of Lothering were comfortable with her presence. In the spring there would be no more snow to hide behind, and no chilly winds to drive people indoors. Everyone would be out wandering the town, the Templars included. If they noticed that the townsfolk were giving her strange looks, they would come to investigate, and Marcelle would have to leave.

As it was, the Templars spent most of their time in the Chantry or patrolling the streets during the afternoon. They were not often seen outside of the Chantry after sundown. However, on one cold evening Marcelle encountered them in Dane's Refuge. She was sitting in the corner of the tavern, poking at her thick, onion stew with a crust of day-old bread when two Templars entered. They paid no mind to the apostate slurping her soup at a lonely table in one of the dark corners of the establishment. They were too busy talking and commiserating about their fate. It was not hard to eavesdrop, nor was it difficult to guess their intent. By their long faces and the tangle of their legs under the table they sat at, it was apparent that they had come to get drunk.

"I hate Ferelden," one of them moaned into his mug. "It is cold. It is not like Antiva."

"I hate it too," moaned the other. She took a long drink from the pungent brown ale in her mug. "Smells like _dog_. Even the _beer._"

"And I thought people were joking when they said that. But it's true! Smells like wet dog. It sticks to your clothes, and Maker's mercy, your hair too. I haven't gotten it out of my tabard."

"Too true. I tried washing it in beet juice, but all I managed to do was stain the lining!"

"I thought you Orlesians used apple vinegar for all your cleaning purposes?"

"You try getting it from these barbarians."

Marcelle listened with mild disinterest to their conversation. They were typical foreigners: wet dog this, wet dog that, barbarians, barbarians, barbarians. While both of the Templars could do with some reminding that the Maker's Bride was Fereldan, Marcelle did not want to risk gaining their ire. She also didn't want to linger long in a public place while they were nearby, and so she quietly slipped her meal's worth of coins onto the worn table top. Delicious and hot as the soup had been, thick onions and spices were not worth a disturbance of the peace.

She made her way out into the cold night, picking her way along the cobblestones. She took extra care to not step into any of the slushy puddles of ice. Spring was only a few weeks away, but Ferelden's weather could be unpredictable. Though she expected warmer weather soon, there was no telling how long she would have to remain bundled underneath her cloak and its thick fur trim.

The thought of warming weather reminded her that she would need to gather materials for a new set of clothes. Her robes from Kirkwall were too ostentatious for a small village like Lothering, and she had only been able to get away with wearing them because she kept herself bundled beneath her practical cloak. The Warden Commander had chosen a very tasteful cloak for her, guessing that she would need simplicity and practicality over glamour and style wherever it was that she was going. Marcelle had not fully appreciated the gift when she'd first received it, but now she was thankful more than ever.

Between the moonlight and the crunching snow below her feet, Marcelle mused what her former companions would think of her if they saw her now. She had gone from Marcelle Hawke, Fereldan refugee, to Marcelle Hawke Scion of the Amell Family, to Marcelle Hawke the Champion. Now she was only Marcelle Hawke, apostate mage. Her deeds carried no weight in Ferelden, and held just as much in the Templar-controlled Kirkwall. Though she had done much for Kirkwall, that was not enough to guarantee her safety within its walls. The Templars _knew _she was a mage, and with Knight-Commander Meredith's death, the grace she had allowed Marcelle to live under had disappeared. Her freedom was no longer a convenient amusement or a necessary evil, it was now optional. She was a mage, and they _would _come for her.

Marcelle accepted this. While she enjoyed freedom, she did not _need _it. She had not asked for titles or power; she had acted as she had because of her family. That family was now gone – either by death or by duty. The titles and the rewards that came with it were hollow. Marcelle had to live for herself, not for other people, and after having spent the better part of a decade doing the latter, the former was quite difficult. Truth be told, she was not completely predisposed against a life in the Circle. The Circle offered a life of study, control, and containment, which did not disgust her as much as it did Anders. Life in the Circle was comparatively easier than maintaining an estate or running a city, which held some appeal to the world weary Champion.

If the Circle had been an option for her, she gladly would have agreed to go.

But the Circle was not an option any longer. If Marcelle had understood the young Templar who had come to warn her to leave the city correctly, the Circle was no longer an option for _any _mage. It seemed that Mother Petrice's tree had borne fruit – but of a different kind. The Templars had learned something from the Qunari about the handling of mages. As the Qunari killed their mages for being outside of their guardians' care, so too would the Templar Order. There were no second chances, no opportunities to explain, no possibilities of infecting other mages with stories of the outside world and the wonders of living… there was only death. The Templars would not stop until they had found every mage in Thedas and slaughtered them. And those that they did not slaughter, those mages who had held steadfast, they would break. Their lips may not have been sewn, they may not have been forced to wear blinders or heavy crowns that bowed their heads, but they would have been broken. All mages would be laid to rest along the sea of Tranquility, whether in this life or the next.

Such unnecessary cruelty caused a well of anxiety to form in the pit of her stomach. Mages did not have to walk free – but they had the right to live. It was true that there was no redemption for mages who had turned to demons for aid – they were too spiritually injured to save. Yet, there were many mages who were innocent of any wrongdoings who would suffer as a result of the actions of the few. The extremists had condemned them all, and therein was the injustice.

The anxiety quickly manifested itself into a physical pain in her chest when a terrible thought crossed her mind: Sebastian would be among the first to answer the Templars' call to arms. She was at her door when she sagged against it and put a hand to her heart. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps. How many mages, she wondered, would Sebastian take his vengeance upon? She swallowed icy air to calm herself, and with a shaking hand let herself inside. The howl of a lone wolf followed her indoors and would not leave until she had lit a fire and slipped into her nightgown.

As she settled herself into bed that night, it occurred to her that Sebastian could probably drown himself in the blood of mages and not feel sated. She had seen that look in his eyes before, that deep and hunted stare. She'd seen it when he had first posted his bounty on the Chantry's board, and then later when he had looked at Anders. Death was justice; it was the ultimate justice. For all his goodness, Sebastian was still a mortal man with all of man's worst flaws. He might deny himself a woman's love, but in his vengeance he might not deny himself a woman's life.

It was with all her heart that she deeply desired the opposite. She wanted Sebastian to know peace, to know love, and to let go of his hatred. She had cursed herself for indulging his revenge by killing the Flint Mercenary Company because she knew it had set a precedent for him. Yet, if she had not killed them she would never have come to know him. If Sebastian had not posted his bounty, she would never have known he existed.

She teased these riddles out in her mind as she slowly succumbed to sleep. Loose ends hung around her, waiting for the first opportunistic spirit to find her and take advantage of her confusion and vulnerability.

And so one did.

There was another desire demon in the Fade, and it was waiting for her as she passed through the Veil. It was wearing Sebastian's handsome face and his clothes, but it was also wearing a crown. He was the Prince of Starkhaven, and in this dream he had come to welcome his wife.

Marcelle had shamefully concocted the dream when the Grand Cleric had confirmed Sebastian's identity as being the last of the Vael ruling family. She had lain in bed that night and indulged herself in a fantasy about a man who by all accounts did not _want _the burden of power. In her head, she had dressed him in silks and crowned him with gold. She had swaddled him in kingly glory and though she had defamed his moral character by doing so, in her eyes, he was no less diminished.

It occurred to her, as Sebastian took her face between his hands and smiled at her lovingly, that she had probably done him a great many disservices. He would likely be horrified if he knew that the demons that were perpetually on her trail were using his face to taunt and torment her… or, given the new man he had become, he probably would have thought it fitting that her gift also be her curse.

"Welcome home, wife," Sebastian said, placing a gentle kiss on her lips. His blue eyes fluttered shut and he let out a small puff of air in pleasure that fanned across her features. "I have missed you so."

"And I have missed you also, husband," she replied automatically, looking for the strength to pull away from the touch that she had so longed for. "There was only rain in Kirkwall." His long fingered hands on either side of her cheeks were hard and warm, and smelt of polish and resin.

"There is rain in Starkhaven too," he chuckled, lifting his eyes to the ceiling above them where the sound of rain on the roof was echoing. A thunderclap shook the walls around them and upon hearing it Sebastian gathered Marcelle into his arms. "The Maker is sure to bless us with a green and verdant spring this year."

"It will be good for the people." Marcelle flashed him a smile, following the script of this dream as easily as she would a well traveled path.

"Aye," he placed a gentle kiss to her temple, "and good for us too."

Marcelle closed her eyes and sank into Sebastian's warm embrace. Her arms encircled his waist and she rested her cheek against his shoulder, rubbing it against the warm, red fabric of his shirt. She trembled in his arms, her body shaking of its own volition as it demanded that the dream moved forward. Her teeth chattered and her knees shook. Marcelle suddenly found herself soaked with rain, the fabric of her robes and cloak sticking to her skin possessively. A lock of wet hair fell over one eye as she pulled back to look at Sebastian, and he was quick to smooth it out of her face and behind one of her ears.

"Come," he whispered in her ear, "let us get you out of your wet things and into something drier. I would not wish for my wife to be sick…"

She only nodded, watching the desire demon with half-parted lips. They knew _everything _about this man by now. They had to. She touched the backs of her fingers to his cheek, and he captured her hand in his and kissed each of her knuckles gently. His tongue darted out to tease at the spaces between her fingers, which caused her breath to hitch in surprise. She closed her eyes and sighed as he blew over the places his tongue had been. Her cold fingers were burning as they heated, matching the temperature of the blood that skipped and danced below the surface of her skin.

"My poor wife…" Sebastian murmured against her wind bitten hands. "Let me soothe you."

Marcelle's world quickly flipped upside down. She did not know who instigated the kiss, but she found herself pressed up against the wall next to the fireplace. The heat of the fire licked at her ankles as Sebastian dropped a hand to her hip and began to bunch the fabric up to her waist. His other hand tangled in her wet hair, gripping and pulling as his lips moved over hers. His tongue snaked out between her lips, plundering her mouth with wicked and sinful intent before he dragged it down her chin and along her neck to kiss at the sensitive skin there. He worried and sucked at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, leaving red welts where his lips had been.

"Is this," she whispered breathlessly, unable to quiet the noise of half-pain, half-pleasure she made when she felt his teeth scrape a bruise, "a traditional Starkhaven welcome?"

"It soon will be," he whispered, rubbing his nose just below her jaw and inhaling deeply, "if I ever let you leave my side again. Maker's mercy, these months have been _torture_…" Having dragged her robes up high enough, he slipped his hand below their hem to ghost along the skin of her thigh. He gripped her leg firmly, lifting it up so that it wrapped around his waist. "I have missed you so much, my love. To spend a night without you is agony."

"Next time," she reached a hand up to grasp at her face and pull him away from his caresses, "I will bring you with me."

Sebastian spent several long minutes kissing her in response. His lips moved up and down her face, planting kisses along her cheeks, chin, and forehead before narrowing his focus down onto her red and puffy lips. He soothed the swelling blossom of her lower lip by tracing the edge of it with his tongue and slowly drawing it into his own mouth. He sucked on it gently before releasing her, and grinned when he tugged a low moan out of her mouth. His fingertips dug into the sensitive flesh of her thigh. "Oh, Marcelle…I must have you. My blood is burning within me, and it is a fire that I have never known before. Let me show you."

Marcelle could only gasp out something intelligible as he ground his hips against hers, lifting her so that she could feel the full extent of his arousal.

"Let me show you," he repeated, grinding his hips between hers, "how much you mean to me. Let me," he grunted as he gave a particularly hard snap of his body against hers, "share everything I own with you. My kingdom, my heart, my body… all the gifts of paupers. Not," his head rolled backward, "what you really deserve."

"No," she protested. "All I ever wanted was you…" She wrapped her arms around his neck for balance as he rocked against her. The hand in her hair abandoned it for the wall, and the hand that had been on her thigh was now resting against the swell of her bottom. Its fingers were toying with the edge of her smalls, teasing first one finger beneath the fabric, and then another. She opened to him like a dew-laden flower in the sunlight and buried her face in his neck as he curled a finger and sank knuckle-deep into her.

"Wife," he rasped, dipping a second finger in, "you are more than ready for me. Oh, Maker…I will spend myself here if I do not have you. Let me take you to bed," he withdrew his fingers and then slipped them in once more, "where I can love you properly."

Coherent thought was rapidly pushing itself out of Marcelle's head, and she was finding it hard to follow the pathway of the fantasy she had created. She could recall only the barest of fragments about it, of how Sebastian had made love to her in their bed as the rain clattered above them and thunder rolled in the distance. She would cradle his hips with her thighs, feeling him split and spread her up to the very end of her limits. An image of him hovering above her, smiling with his eyes closed as he spent himself inside her, came to mind. In both her real bed in Kirkwall and in the dream bed in Starkhaven, she had clenched her thighs together to keep his issue from escaping. Starkhaven was green and fertile with the spring rain, and so was she. She would grow round with his child, and he would worship her and the growing life in her belly. He would be all hands and lips, doting and considerate to her swollen body's needs. He would sing chants to of the Maker's love to their child, and make promises that only fathers could, of how he would protect her from harm, and how he would show their child how to be truthful and kind and good.

Thoughts of the future vanished as Sebastian's fingers curled against something that made her writhe, buck, and cry out. Dragged into the present, she dug startled fingertips into his shirt as her head knocked back roughly against the wall. She inhaled deeply and tried to regain her composure. It was very difficult to think with Sebastian stroking her in such intimate places and watching her reactions with such an intense gaze. His fingers moved each time he saw a new emotion flick across her features and his blue eye were almost black in the firelight with his wicked intent. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back, chest heaving in an onslaught of lust and resolve.

The fantasy was a _lie. _ Sebastian would never touch her so; and he would be disgusted to know that she had brought herself to her shatterpoint thinking of him. She clung to his disgust, to the pity he would feel about her poor, misguided heart's attempts to find love, in order to keep herself grounded and fuel her resistance. The thought of his scornful gaze resting upon her naked flesh was enough to fuel the gentle slithering of her hands up to his neck. The thought of him pushing her away, repulsed by how easily she had been lured into the allure of a title and kingdom, was enough to give strength to her fingers.

She squeezed his neck with all her might, capturing the tanned and muscled column with a loud grunt of effort.

Sebastian flailed and bucked against her, the fingers that were inside her finding their way up her body to grip her own throat in an iron vice.

"Why do you fight me, wife?" he croaked hoarsely, slick fingers white with the force of their grip.

Marcelle could make no sound to respond, could not even _breathe _if she wanted to. But when words failed her, as they so often did, she had other means to communicate her intent. She sent a pulse of spirit energy through her hands and Sebastian flew away from her. He hit the wall on the opposite side of the room and broke through it. The rain outside was nothing more than an illusion, merely a sound effect, for the hole revealed only the weird and twisted landscape of the Fade. Shaking her head to clear herself of the desire demon's influence and straightening her skirts, Marcelle rose from the crouch she had sank into just in time to see the desire demon step through the rubble of the wall.

"You shame him," Marcelle growled at the demon, "with your mockery!"

The desire demon laughed and ran a long hand down over her stomach. "The Sebastian Vael _I _know of never fought against the temptation of a woman's touch."

"You do not know him." Marcelle put her hands together and conjured a ball of blue energy, the fade leaking and bleeding around her as she did so, "And I will never give you the chance to."

"Oh," the demon crooned, "is that so? Come then, little mage, and fight me. Know that I will greatly enjoy walking the world in your skin and driving men to sin and temptation with your face."

The ball of energy in Marcelle's hands shattered into a tiny, thousand beads of energy as she released it towards the demon. The desire demon spun and ducked, but found herself unable to avoid each of the tiny orbs. She screamed and hissed as the energy seared flesh from her limbs and scarred her hauntingly beautiful face. The pieces of magic that missed her dispersed upon meeting the wilderness of the Fade outside, fizzling out of existence with a firefly's wink.

Marcelle had launched two more of the orbs at the desire demon in the time it took for the demon to regain her composure and fury. A shower of fire fell down around Marcelle's head, but she raised one arm and created a shield of thick ice to protect her from the heat. The desire demon pelted her with molten rock and sprays of fire, trying to break past the sheets of ice that Marcelle had conjured. She was so engrossed in her fiery onslaught that she was unaware of the sudden flash of brilliant, white light behind her.

"I will _wear _your face, little mage!" the desire demon taunted, raising a clawed hand high above her head to pluck the fire out of a star. "And I will - "

Faith's sword burst from the front of the desire's demon chest, cutting her off mid-speech. She howled and clawed at the blade, nails scrabbling against the white hot metal that was hissing and smoking inside of her.

"You will die," Marcelle finished. She stretched her hands forward and a barrage of white sparks erupted from her fingertips. The cold air of the magic's release whipped and whistled around her hands, rubbing her knuckles raw, but the magic flew straight and true. The desire demon shattered, pulled apart by the magnetic force of the magic.

Marcelle ran a shaking hand over her face while the other gingerly inspected the red marks on her neck. Faith was watching her curiously and extended a hand towards her, the tips of his gauntlet glowing blue with healing energy. He seemed to frown when she waved it away with an excuse of, "I will be fine."

"As you say," Faith acknowledged with a tip of his head. Wearing a helmet, Faith's moods were hard to decipher and though he had acknowledged Marcelle's words, the air around him suggested uncertainty. "I will be here to help you," he said at long length, eying Marcelle's disheveled appearance up and down, "anyway that you need." Faith slipped his sword into its scabbard and crossed towards her.

"Faith," Marcelle replied helplessly, holding out her hands to him in a gesture of despair. "Are you disappointed in me for being weak?"

"You are not weak, fledgling," Faith replied. "No, never weak. If you were weak, we would not be having this discussion, for you would have been consumed by the demon's lust. You acknowledge your flaws, you are confident that your strengths can overcome them, and you have faith that your flaws are improvable. I would call you stronger than most. "

Marcelle pursed her lips at his assessment. "Thank you, Faith. But, I just wish," she said taking a deep breath, "they would stop using him; using his _face. _ Why do they not come as my mother? Why not my brother or my father? Surely, Bethany means as much to me as Sebastian does. Why does it always _have _to be _him_?"

"Desire demons are attracted to those who want what they cannot have." Faith could only offer her the words she did not want to hear, "You want something that your friend will not give to you, nor can you give to him. Yet, he is a part of you, and always will be. You must come to terms with this, or it will consume you."

"It is not for my sake," Marcelle ran her hands through her still wet hair, "I am happy to be consumed. I simply cannot bear the thought of Sebastian being perverted in such a way by these… foul creatures. He deserves better. He should not suffer such gross indignities. "

Faith placed a firm hand on her shoulder, his touch crackling against Marcelle's wet robes. "Then use that to defeat them, fledgling."

Marcelle wished it was that easy, and after two more nights of being nearly seduced by demons wearing Sebastian's face, she made up her mind. With the help of the herbs growing in a small planter on her window, she did not return to the Fade again for some time.

* * *

><p><em>We'll be meeting the Prince of Starkhaven soon enough! Very exciting. <em>

_Thank you to all of you who have been reading, reviewing, and alerting! M'always aiming to please! :)_


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

The Warden Commander swept the frost out of her face as she entered the Vigil. Spring was being particularly cold and bitter, clinging to winter like a lover departed. It had rained all afternoon, and the rain had turned to snow, and now as evening fell across the land the snow had turned to ice pellets. Whatever crops the farmers had managed to plant would be destroyed, and to the Warden that meant an endless stream of petitioners seeking remuneration from the Arling and the Crown for their troubles.

The doors of the grand hall swung open for her, pushed outward by the two servants who had been notified of her arrival by the ever-vigilant Nathaniel. With the wind and the ice she stormed into the hall, her heavy boots echoing across the polished marble floors. Her Grey Wardens bustled around her as Varel waved his hand in the air and scattered servants out of the hall. Like baby birds welcoming home their mother they chirped and they cheeped, but the Warden Commander ignored them all. She had her grey eye fixed on the throne at the far end of the hall.

The throne was made of silverite and ancestral heartwood, and was a brilliant and harsh construction of gleaming silver and grey. The wood had been carved to resemble a griffon on its hind legs, and the silverite was fashioned into the griffon's grand, sweeping wings. It was not a comfortable chair, for it had no cushion and was comprised of the hardest material available. But it was a seat, and more importantly, it was _her _seat.

The Griffon Throne had been the seat of every First Warden since the Towers Age, and up until nearly a year ago, it had resided in Weisshaupt. When the Grey Warden messengers had come to her in Denerim informing her that Andraste Caron had disappeared suddenly and left only a note on her desk proclaiming that Aurora Cousland, Warden Commander of Ferelden, was to be hailed as the next First Warden, her first order of business had been to move to the seat of power of the Grey Wardens from Weisshaupt to Ferelden. Traditionalists amongst the Grey Wardens had fought her bitterly about it, but when night came, _she _was the First Warden and had been named as such officially. If she wanted to move the home of the Grey Wardens from Weisshaupt to Amaranthine, she could do so.

And she had (with much delight, for she never wanted to return to Weisshaupt again).

It had not been without repercussions or threats, but she had taken these in stride and already they were in the process of planning additions to the Vigil to account for an increased number of Grey Wardens.

So it was that when she settled herself onto the Griffon Throne, it was with a quiet sigh. One of the Vigil's many mousers had been lurking behind her chair, and as soon as had stopped moving it took the opportunity jump onto her lap. The Warden Commander ran a chilly, metal gauntlet along the grey tabby's spine and scratched at the base of its tail. The cat rolled onto its back and showed her its stomach, rubbing the sides of its face against the edge of the Warden Commander's tasset. The Warden Commander chuckled and tickled the cat's paws, forgetting the expectant faces hovering around her.

The cat was nothing like her mabari, Dane, and indeed, she had thought that surrounding herself with the fluffy, many-colored felines would fill the void that her war hound had left behind. The cats had not; the only thing that had soothed his passing was time. Besides keep the castle free of vermin and occupy the Warden Commander's very limited time, all the cats had done was make poor Nathaniel Howe and the Seneschal miserable with their fur, but both men had borne their suffering quietly.

Blowing fur off her gauntlet, the Warden turned her grey eye up towards the crowd. Garevel was wringing his hands together, as was Cauthrien. But for the two of them, this behavior was not indicative of anything specific. Cauthrien was confident in battle – completely unwavering and resolute - but had not yet found her feet as Second of the Grey Wardens. She was very used to Loghain's command, and though the Warden Commander and Loghain had been very similar, they had also been very different in many fundamental ways. Garevel was much the same way – he was confident when he knew his duty, but was prone to bouts of uncertainty when he had lost his way. The Warden Commander made a note to speak to each of them in private and assign them new tasks to keep them busy.

Nathaniel Howe was hovering at the left wing of the throne, which was here he liked to stand. She would not have known he was there if she had not seen his image reflected in the cat's green eyes. If Nathaniel needed something, he would seek her out later in private. As if to one-up Nathaniel, Vidar was hovering at the throne's right wing. He deliberately let his shadow fall into the Warden's field of vision. The insolent bastard prince turned Grey Warden from the Anderfels had the audacity to stain the silverite of her throne with his fingertips, and he lounged over the wing as if it were the back of a chair.

Oghren and Sigrun were the only two of the current Grey Wardens at the Vigil who were not dancing around her feet. Sitting by the fire, both dwarves had raised their tankard to her as she'd entered (she'd seen this from the corner of her eye), but they were having far too much fun in their game of _stone wall _to move. By the smirk on Sigrun's face, it was apparent that she was winning – or that she had won. She was running her hands over her bald and tattooed head in a very satisfied manner, while Oghren looked on at the cards she had laid down with open mouthed surprise.

The two faces that the Warden Commander worried about the most were Seneschal Varel's and Carver's. While Seneschal Varel was implacably calm, Carver looked as though he was about to do somersaults in the grand hall. And by the looks that Carver was shooting the Seneschal, it was obvious that Varel knew whatever it was that was on Carver's mind.

She raised an eyebrow and tilted her head towards Seneschal Varel. "Come now, don't keep us in suspense. I take it there is something to report, Varel?" She wiped the back of her eye with her gauntlet, trying to stave off her weariness.

The Seneschal stepped towards her and presented her with a small note that he had hidden in his large, sword-bitten hands. He winced when her hand lingered longer than necessary on his, her metal covered thumb stroking his knuckles. He cleared his throat and withdrew himself a respectful distance away from her, stepping back with his head bowed. "The scouts on the coast have reported more ships."

"Oh, Maker's breath," the Warden Commander settled back against the Griffon Throne and pulled the badly dripped candle wax away from the letter. She flipped the missive open. "Please tell me no more Templars are on the way?"

Varel shook his head. "No, the ships did not bear the Sword of Andraste."

"Then they are unmarked?" The Warden Commander had not yet read the letter, trusting Varel to just tell her its contents instead.

"No," Varel shook his head, "it was a crest I was unfamiliar with." He described its features, its colors, and watched as a steady change of expression came over on his Commander's face. Her face went from one of fatigue and boredom to one of piqued curiosity. "You recognize it?"

"No," the Warden Commander's eyes darted to the small window above the servant's entrance, "but I can venture a guess as to who it is. Tell me, did the scouts give an estimate as to their arrival?"

"I imagine that we have a day, at the most, before the ships dock at the harbor." Varel knew from the look on her face what was coming next. "Should I rally the Vigil and make her ready for guests?"

"Indeed, Varel." She flashed him a wicked smile. "Make the Vigil fit for a prince."

"So that bastard _is _coming," hissed Carver. He folded his large arms across his chest and scowled sourly at the letter in the Warden Commander's hands. "He's come for my sister."

"Did you think she was lying?" asked the Warden Commander with some amusement. "I did not."

"The tale was almost too good to be true," Nathaniel commented quietly. When he had first heard Marcelle's tale, he had been quite shocked to learn that his friend Anders had been at the heart of it. But he had been horrified to learn of Anders's deeds, and what Anders had done to himself. The Warden Commander had approached him about it afterwards, but Nathaniel had given her a firm shake of his head and had said that, as far as he was concerned, Anders had died at the assault Vigil's Keep. Whatever Justice had done to him to save him, whatever Justice had turned him into was not his friend.

It haunted both of them to think about the possibility of Anders living under the Vigil's roof. Instead of it being the Kirkwall Chantry being destroyed, it might have been Our Lady of the Redeemer in Amaranthine.

"It _did _sound like something out of a bedtime story," the Warden Commander agreed. "And it keeps going deeper in that direction too."

"You really aren't going to let him stay here, are you, Commander?" Carver's bright blue eyes shimmered in the candlelight. "If I see that self-righteous prig, I'll knock his head in."

The Warden Commander sighed. "Unfortunately, I am. I can throw Sebastian Vael off his hunt if he is in Amaranthine better than I can if he were to be in Denerim. Besides," she chuckled, "you have only yourself to blame. Why, you could have taken that nice posting in Val Royeaux, and then you wouldn't have to see him."

"What, and listen to more cracks about how I smell like dog? No thank you." Carver shook his head.

"You will have to be on your best behavior," the Warden Commander warned. She swept her eyes across everyone present. "That means all of you. You are not to speak one word of our most recent guest."

"Have you," Vidar leaned over the griffon wing so that he was hovering over the Warden Commander's shoulder, "gone soft for the mages, Commander?"

"She is Carver's sister," replied the Warden Commander evenly, "and Grey Wardens protect their own."

"Thank you," Carver said. He sent Vidar a venomous gaze. "At least _somebody _understands."

"Oh," Vidar pitched his voice low, "_excuse _me. I think I need to find the runt a brush so he can scrub his tongue. Looks like he just tasted - "

"Oh, shut it, you - "

"_Vidar,_" the Warden Commander said sharply, "_Carver. _This is _my _hall. If you two wish to fight, please feel free to do so outside the gates of the Vigil. I shall tolerate no dissent or fighting in my ranks, is this understood?"

"Crystal," Vidar replied bitterly.

"Clear," Carver said in a softer voice, chastised for the moment.

"Also," she swept her gaze around her companions again, her hand tickling the belly of the cat once more, "I should not have to remind you, but he _is _a prince. Do try to be on your best behavior. I would very much like to establish better trading contacts with the Free Marches, and I may be unable to do that if he feels insulted or slighted by us."

"Bah," bellowed Oghren from the fire. "When did you become such a politician, Commander? Why can't you just go back to hitting things? If I wanted politics, I'd go back to sodding Orzammar."

"If she went back to hitting things," Sigrun said mildly, shuffling the cards between her pale, dexterous fingers, "she'd put you out of a job, Oghren!"

"Feh," Oghren took a long drink from his tankard and belched loudly, pounding his chest with his fist. "We need to go darkspawn hunting soon. Oghren's getting a little restless."

"Be careful what you wish for, Oghren. I fear," Cauthrien said, casting her eyes to the great double doors of the hall, "that if things persist as they do, it won't be darkspawn we'll be fighting."

The Warden Commander closed her eye and shook her head. "It cannot come to that. I will not allow it."

"It doesn't work that way, Commander. You can't stop the people from feeling what they do," argued Cauthrien. "They are being forced to quarter Templars against their will, and feed them with their limited supplies of food. They are _unhappy. _ It won't be long before there is a riot. And if they riot - "

" – there will be a massacre." The Warden Commander let out a hiss of hair through her teeth. "I know."

Cauthrien licked her lips and took a deep breath. "You need to send them away."

"Trust me," the First Warden chuckled deep in her throat, "if I had the means, I would do so. Alas, we are unfortunately bound. Would you have us risk open conflict with the Divine? Ferelden has enough problems in Orlais already, it does not need another."

"_She_ is just using this as an excuse."

The Warden Commander shook her head. "This is another argument for another time, Cauthrien. The Empress of Orlais and her motives are not our concern right now. Protecting the people of Amaranthine is. You have been amongst the people more than I: tell me, tell all of us, is there anything else we can do?"

"Short of opening the doors of the Vigil to those who wish to flee their homes," Varel said smoothly, "there is little else we can do in the city and surrounding areas."

Garevel's clear voice followed right on the end of Varel's words. "Our patrols are stretched thin, and the Silver Order has already tripled their duty hours."

"What if we moved into Amaranthine City itself?" asked Nathaniel. "We could establish a temporary Grey Warden guard post. It might help give people the morale to know that we are close by."

The Warden Commander bobbed her head. "I like that idea, Nathaniel. Seneschal, see it done. I will draft up a rotation in the morning. And we should," she added, "open our gates to anyone who wishes to stay within the Vigil's walls. I will not leave our people without options."

"Aye," Oghren grinned from the fire, "this is more like it. This sounds like a battle plan!"

Carver snorted. "You don't even _like _organized battles."

"Yeah, because you always get your assignments wrong! You kill the wrong things!"

"A dead darkspawn is a dead darkspawn."

"Not when it's _my _dead darkspawn, boy!"

"Stupid dwarf," Carver muttered under his breath.

The banter between Carver and Oghren was quickly cut off by a polite cough from their Commander.

"Is there anything else that we should talk of?" Folding her hands over the cat in her lap, the Warden Commander looked at the Grey Wardens and trusted officers around her expectantly. Seeing only a series of head shakes, she smiled and gently shooed the cat away from her lap and stood. "Well, then. Perhaps we should all demand dinner of the cook? I am _ravenous. _I could eat Sigrun raw."

From the chorus of agreement, it appeared everyone else was too. Off to the kitchen chattering they all went, a watch of hungry Grey Wardens, the Captain of the Guard, and the Seneschal of the Vigil.

* * *

><p><em>What would one call a group of Grey Wardens? I happened to like "watch," even though Grey Wardens really aren't at all like nightingales. <em>

_Marcelle in Lothering is up next, followed by our favorite Prince of Starkhaven. _

_Again, spoilers for Trovommi Amor. If you've been a long time reader and you want to know exactly what has happened between TA and Worth, just drop me a PM and I'll be happy to fill you in with as many details as you like. (And if you're a reader who hasn't read Trovommi Amor, well, it is my flagship story, so to speak. So, if you're enjoying Worth, you may actually enjoy it too...) _

_TA isn't over, btw. It is just on a very small break while I finish this. _

_Also: thank you to everyone who has been following Worth! I'm glad you've been enjoying it so far, and I hope you continue to enjoy it. For those of you who have been leaving me feedback, I do appreciate it! Thank you again. :)_


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Spring made Lothering brown and muddy, but Marcelle would have had it no other way. It was a new beginning, and she relished the chance to be outside in the warmer weather and do something useful. With her skirts pulled about her knees, she was crouching in the small plot of earth her father had purchased along with their house so long ago. She was surprised the land around the house had not been claimed by neighbors or opportunistic farmers closer to the center of town, but then she _had _heard of a rumor that her house and its land were haunted. And the people of Lothering, being fairly superstitious and Chantry abiding folk, were wary of associating with things that were cursed, haunted, or just plain bad luck.

Marcelle had been outside sunrise planting her seeds, taking a break only when her shadow was shortest, and then returning to work once she had eaten. The seeds would not plant themselves, and she wanted to complete the majority, if not all, of her planting that day. The sooner her seeds were in the ground, the quicker they would grow. And so she had spent hours drilling holes into the wet ground with her fingers, and then sprinkling a few of her precious seeds into them.

The seeds had come all the way from Kirkwall with her, having been in the pocket of her robes by accident. They had been a gift from Grand Cleric Elthina for her mother's garden, but she'd never gotten the time to plant them, as shortly after she had received the gift the conflict between the Templars and the mages had come to its highest point. Sebastian had been the one to deliver the pouch of seeds to her, explaining what the different little colors on the velvet satchels meant. She had thanked him with a gentle kiss on his cheek and an offer to join her in her garden when she got time to plant them. Sebastian had readily agreed.

And oh, how she wished she had his help now. She still had so much left to do! She had planted embrium in the front of her house, and hoped that it took well to the soil and would grow wild. The beautiful petals of the flowers and its delicate stalks would much improve the exterior of her small home. In the small field, she had planted some staple crops: some stalks of wheat and corn, and then more earthy fare like potatoes and carrots. At present, she was working on her herb garden. She had planted elfroot and spindleweed so far, and was near to being finished with the maiden's touch seeds. She still had to finish her crops in the field, but found that she'd rather have her basic necessities taken care of before she moved onto such luxuries like watermelons and grapes.

She thought that with these plants in order she would have enough food to sustain herself over the course of the summer and well into the winter. If she didn't, she could supplement her supply with food from Barlin, though she did not want to infringe on the man's hospitality for too much longer. She had planted extra rows of herbs so that she could eventually transplant them into small pots of soil and bring them inside before the frost came. The herbs would be her main livelihood as a healer, and she would need as many of them as she could fit into her home in order to maintain her practice.

The idea of keeping potted herbs in her home had come after seeing Anders growing such plants in his clinic in Kirkwall. He had first used only the slivers of light that came down into Darktown to grow them, but as the years had progressed, he had managed to expand his garden by using magically created light to power to nurture his plants. And if Anders could do it, Marcelle knew she could as well. It would be tricky, of course, since such a display of magic would catch the Templar's attention. However, the risk of exposure did not outweigh the benefits of having the herbs on hand to help the people of Lothering. She would risk the Templars' wrath, and she laughed at the thought of coming to blows with a man like Ser Bryant over a small, potted plant.

The exchange in her head was quite laughable, with the Templars surrounding her small cottage and demanding that she turn over the plants and herself into their custody. Without a doubt, both plants and mage would wither and die, though elfroot, like Marcelle, happened to be a very resilient plant. It might survive ill-handling at the Templars' care.

Wiping the sweat away from her forehead with the back of her hand, Marcelle hung her head and felt a sore tug on her upper back. She was tempted to take another break, perhaps drink some of the water she had boiled that morning, but thought better of it when she examined the length of her shadow on the ground. She resolved to take a few moments to rest, and she closed her eyes and listened to the chorus of bird song.

The wind rustled through the trees, bringing with it the promise of summer and the scent of a fruitful year. Its cool fingers swept away the hair from her face and soothed her heated cheeks. It was a beautiful feeling – it was overall a beautiful day – and Marcelle wished more than ever that she had someone to share it with. When she had lived in Kirkwall, she had shared every waking moment with her companions, living life and experiencing moments such as these with them. Whether they were sitting on the shoals of the Wounded Coast and feeling the sea breeze tickle their legs, or they were lying flat on the rocks outside the Bone Pit and were sunning themselves to the _clink _and _clank _of picks against stone, no moment had been too mundane or simple to share.

With a guilty smile and a lick of her salty lips, Marcelle indulged herself in the creation of an elaborate reality. She was no longer in Ferelden by herself anymore; she had brought her friends with her. What had happened with Meredith and Orsino was forgotten. Everyone was as they were when they were happiest, and they were all joyful at returning to the home and homeland of their friend and leader.

Aveline would be in the field behind her, her strong arms carving and planting stakes for the future seedlings. "Hawke," she would call, "I'll need more wood if we're to finish staking all these plants."

Anders would probably be out in the village, taunting Templars and aiding the sick. "Don't mind me," the mage would shout over his shoulder as he left to find someone in need, "I'll leave the Chantry in one piece. Can't promise about the Templars though!" Without worrying about the mages of Kirkwall, Anders would never have degenerated into the unrecognizable man he had become during those final few years. He would never, if Marcelle had understood Nathaniel correctly, been his plucky, glib self, but he would have been more at peace.

She wished that very much for him.

Isabela would be a menace, and it would only take the pirate queen a matter of minutes until she had Hawke, Fenris, Merrill, or perhaps a combination of the three of them, splattered with mud. "Now that I've gotten you all dirty," she would have drawled, hands on her hips, "I think it's time you got _me _dirty too."

"Shut up, whore, and do some bloody work," Aveline would have grumbled, and Isabela would only have laughed and rubbed her mud-covered hands on her thighs and remarked that Aveline's face was the same color as her hair.

Fenris would have wiped the mud from his face and stood with all the grace of a lethal jungle cat. If he was feeling particularly generous, perhaps he would have even lifted Merrill up by the scruff of her robes, setting her on her feet as she stared at Isabela with her large green eyes. If he did not, Merrill would have used him as a ladder to stand, grasping the various leather straps and buckles on her way up.

"Why is it I'm always the one getting dirty? Elgar'nan!"

"Because, kitten," Isabela would have grinned, "_I'm _the captain, and _I _like you that way."

"Said the pirate queen to the Dalish pariah."

Isabella would have shot a challenging stare to Varric, who would have been lazily leaning out the window watching them. "How about, 'said the sultry pirate queen to her Dalish love slave?'"

"Good one, Rivaini."

Merrill would have protested innocently. "I don't think Dalish are very good at sea!"

Sebastian would have been the only to keep his peace, kneeling in the garden beside her to help her plant the seeds in the pouch. Fingers that could draw a longbow and nock an arrow to kill a man at fifty yards would be put to a gentler task. They would dip into the furrows in the soil and delicately place little shells of life into the earth's protective embrace. And when he was done, his pouch empty and barren, he would have gently touched her knee and asked her for more. "Do you have anymore, Hawke, or should I head to the market and buy some?"

Strong, quiet, and consistent, Sebastian would probably have walked across hot coals to get her seeds if she needed them. His only request for the deed would have been her permission to help her plant them. Truly, the Maker only made men like Sebastian Vael only once in a lifetime and it was only once in an eternity that he let mortals touch such divine creatures.

She imagined that when sunset and all her companions had gone home, Sebastian would have remained to keep her company. Sitting with her well into the night, they would have talked about the plants in the garden and their various uses, as well as expansions to the garden. It would have been a mundane conversation, but nothing Sebastian said would have sounded such. His voice, with his rich accent and warm tones, made every word sound special. And Sebastian had a way of looking at her that made Marcelle feel as though everything else in the room had disappeared and that she was all that was left.

Perhaps…she let out a small sigh. Perhaps in this new reality she crafted, Sebastian would touch her cheek by the fire that night and place a whisper soft kiss on her lips. "Do you need more seeds, Hawke?" became, "Do you need me, Hawke?"

Marcelle found herself whispering, "as flowers need rain," in a soft and loving voice to the empty air around her.

But upon opening her eyes, she realized that the air was not so empty. Grey and inky shadows were being cast on the wall of her home, and Marcelle needed no explanation as to what the heavy, steady footfalls of chainmail against plate meant. She bowed her head and pulled the strings on the seed pouch shut. With the stoic grace of a woman long since used to being hunted, she stood. She let her skirts fall to their full length, no longer concerned about dirtying her hem in the mud. Where she was going, it would only get dirty anyway. The green seed pouch rested by her feet, forgotten in the onslaught of feeling in her breast.

The sensation of a noose tightening around her neck caused the air to rush from her lungs, and she felt magical energy dance up and down her spine, ready to be released. She had not thought the Templars would find her so soon. She had been so clever and so cautious that she thought she would have had at least a year, perhaps two, before they managed to track her down. She had never intended to run from them, hoping merely settle down and actually _live _for once in her life. After all, there was always the possibility that the Templars wouldn't find her, or would forget about her, and she was willing to risk capture if it meant knowing peace. Thus, seeing their long shadows and hearing their heavy footsteps caused no resentment from Marcelle. If they had found her, then she had made a mistake, and it was no one's fault but her own.

There was no bitterness; there was not even any surprise. She was merely disappointed. She had been able to give back to Lothering what she felt Lothering had given her. She had grown up in this place, had been nurtured by its citizens and its farms before fleeing to Kirkwall. Marcelle had much to thank Lothering for, and now she would never get the opportunity. Her time had come and there was no escaping it, no delaying it.

She could not – she would not – barter, beg, charm, or fight her way out of this final stand. She had lived a long, full life, and if this was her time, then so be it.

And so when it was that she turned to face the Templars, it was with a serene half-smile and an offering of her slim, white wrists.

* * *

><p><em>Gasp! But how did they find her! Ho hum. Sebastian is next as he sails into Amaranthine with all the fury of a storm. <em>

_Thank you again for following along, dear readers! I'm putting out extra special thanks this chapter to Shakespira and Josie Lange, since I always feel more confident about my stories when I have these two awesome ladies in my corner. :) Thank you both for your unfailing support!_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7 **

In all her years at Amaranthine, the Warden Commander could not remember a time when she had visited "the pier" so frequently. She had remarked to Cauthrien a few days previous about how she was, "beginning to become a regular at the docks." Carver and Sigrun had overheard her say this, and at dinner that night the Warden Commander had been roasted for her "lewd and unseemly behavior." After all, it was not proper for the Warden Commander to "walk the docks" – whether she was in armor or not! Nor was it proper for her to solicit the company of, "ill-tempered young women," as Varel had put it with a small smile. Since then, the docks had become "the pier," and she amended her earlier statement to Cauthrien before she left for it that morning.

"Cauthrien," she called out, "I cannot remember a time when I have visited the pier so frequently!"

"Very good, Commander," Cauthrien replied with a tilt of her head.

And with her honor and dignity restored, the Warden Commander marched out the doors of the Grand Hall and into the streets of the Vigil. She saddled two horses with care, and checked her armor briefly for dents or scuffs before she mounted and rode to Amaranthine City in the misty morning sunlight.

It had been five months since Marcelle Hawke had left Amaranthine, and every week (bordering on every day…) the Warden Commander had been summoned to Amaranthine City to meet with the full force and the fury of the Knight-Vigilant's men.

She had written to King Alistair of what was occurring in Amaranthine, expressing not only her own distaste for being forced to quarter Templars, but also her people's concerns for their safety. The Templars were on edge, and there had been reports from the City Guard of fights in the streets and the rape of two young women. What was worse, the hungry Templars were also eating them out of their food stocks. Before the Templars had arrived, they had enough stores to last them until the first harvests came in. But with added presence of the Templars in the City, they had enough food for only a month more. The people were going to riot, she warned, and when they did, swift retribution would come from the Templars.

But Alistair had written back and explained that a similar situation was happening in Denerim. Denerim's ports were being flooded with ships from all over Thedas, each bearing the Sword of Andraste. Forced to quarter Templars and feed them, Denerim's granaries had enough food for only a quarter of the city: none of them elves, which, Alistair added, made his queen very unhappy.

An unexpected letter from Teyrna Anora Mac Tir of Gwaren had echoed Alistair's statements. Gwaren was being eaten out of hearth and home, and the staunchly Fereldan occupants of the city were becoming rowdier with each passing day. It was now a coin toss to see which of the major sea ports would break first, though everyone counted their blessings that Highever had as of yet been unbothered by the Templars due to the shallow waters and rocky shoals of its docks. If Highever crumbled, the kingdom would be forced to look to the Arling of Redcliffe for strength. Unfortunately, Redcliffe sat on the shores of Lake Calenhad and was in sight of the Circle of Magi, and it was well understood by the Bannorn that the Templars had come to ensnare the Fereldan Circle of Magi once more. It was only a matter of time before Redcliffe felt the weight of the Templar burden – if it hadn't already. No word had come from Teagan Guerrin for several months.

And this troubled the Warden Commander.

Yet, what worried her the most was not the fact that Ferelden was being overrun by angry, snappish Templars. What caused the Warden Commander to lay awake at night and toss and turn as she calculated different scenarios and outcomes in her mind were the rumors that the Templars were actively recruiting Fereldans of all ages into their ranks. For every vociferous townsfolk of Amaranthine or Gwaren, there were apparently a dozen of provincial farmers and tradesmen who welcomed the thought of not only giving shelter to the Templars, but of offering them their sons and daughters in service. Not even after she had slain the Archdemon and put out the call for Grey Wardens had the Warden Commander heard of such thing.

The Templars were _up to something. _And she did not like it. It was not that she disagreed with their function or their purpose: mages were dangerous and needed to be controlled. Yet, when they began to infringe upon on her nation's sovereignty and make daily life a hassle for her, she could not bring herself to greet them with anything more than a cold stare and a purse of her lips.

Thankfully, today was different. As she stood on the docks, the wind whipping her red cape and golden curls into a frenzy behind her, she awaited the arrival of a prince (or what she _thought _was a prince). She had taken every care to appear the perfect picture of radiance and wore a smile that shone as brightly as her breastplate. Freshly scrubbed, well coiffed, and immaculately dressed in her armor, she was strength, power, and above all, beauty. Having made the acquaintance of several princes (and _manipulators_ of princes) in her day, the Warden Commander knew what such men liked. Despite their claims to the contrary, at heart all princes were spoiled and rotten to the core with their authority. They liked to have the final say, the last laugh, and the parting shot, simply because _they were entitled to it._

Before she had set out from the stables, she had pinched her cheeks to make them suitably red and flushed, though the bitter snap of the spring wind was enough to do that for her. The wind had also done the unfortunate thing of drying out her eye and turning her nose a bright red in addition to her cheeks, and so when it was that Prince Sebastian Vael of Starkhaven sailed into her port and disembarked, striding down the gangplank of his ship, she met him with a watery eye and a ruddy face.

Her appearance seemed to take him aback, for he stopped midstride and raised his hands towards her. "Lady Cousland? Are you…" he took a small step towards her, "well?" He sent a concerned look towards a heavily armored man standing at the edge of the gangplank, looking very much like he wanted to come after him. After a moment, Sebastian shook his head and waved him away.

The Warden Commander let out a peal of embarrassed (and very well practiced) laughter and dabbed at her eye with the back of her gauntlet. "I am very well, Prince Vael. The wind from the sea, however, does not agree with me." She waved her hand towards him, urging him to close closer. As he approached, she turned and fell into step beside him as led him towards that path that led upwards into the City of Amaranthine.

His arm was extended to her automatically, and without hesitation, the Warden slipped her arm through his.

"It has been a long time," Sebastian mused, "since I have seen you, Lady Cousland."

"Aye, a long time," the Warden Commander agreed. "You wear your age well, Prince Vael."

Sebastian looked almost as she remembered him: heartbreakingly handsome in a way that no mortal man had any right to be. His eyes were like the skies over Highever, his nose long and regal, and the curve of his lips reminded her of a finely crafted bow. His elegant features were surviving the toil of age, though the Warden Commander could make out the lines on his features. Given what Marcelle had told her, the small creases around his eyes had likely developed from years of laughter with her. The lines in his forehead, on the other hand, looked to have come from a perpetual, if not haughty, scowl.

She noticed with wry humor that he still wore the same white and gold-trimmed armor, though it had been substantially upgraded. His shoulder guard extended higher, and his chest piece now fell all the way down to his belt. The Prince had sacrificed mobility and flexibility for more protection, which only made sense considering he was the _last _of the "true" Vael ruling line. Andraste, however, had not received any upgrades. Sebastian wore the same belt, or at least an identical version of it, complete with the relief of Andraste's face at the belt buckle.

It struck the Warden Commander as oddly perverse that someone would _wear _the Maker's Bride in such a…sensitive area. Though if Sebastian was as true to his vows of chastity as both he and Marcelle had claimed, then it was likely for the best that the Maker's Bride stood guard over his loins. Her ghoulish, almost childlike face was enough to scare away even the boldest of maidens.

"Call me Sebastian," he replied quietly. "I have not yet come to terms with my new title and position." It would not be very princely of him to reply that the Warden Commander was not bearing her age well, nor would it be wise of him to lie since she would likely know that he was. The woman beside him was far younger than he was, but her face was mired with scars and shadows. The pale marks were easy to forget when she smiled, but when she was expressionless and her chin was tilted back they were quite visible and unsettling to behold.

"Well, you can continue to call me Lady Cousland," the Warden Commander nudged his shoulder playfully with her own, her pauldron scraping against his unarmored shoulder, "since I had forgotten that I liked the sound of it."

"Ha," Sebastian's chuckle was soft, "as you wish."

They walked up the path towards the city proper, chatting idly about Sebastian's journey from Starkhaven's port city of Riversrun. As they neared the top of the path, the Warden Commander extended her hand and pointed to a pair of horses that were saddled near the Chanter's board of Amaranthine's Chantry. "I thought," she said, "that you might wish to spend some time at the Vigil. I imagine we have a lot to catch up on."

"I would accept your offer of hospitality, were I not duty bound to right a grave injustice." The thought of a bed that didn't sway was highly appealing to Sebastian, but he could not linger in Amaranthine. Every moment he stayed in Amaranthine was another moment _she _escaped further into the wilds, and it was also another moment that his ship would be taking up valuable space in the Warden Commander's harbor. He did not want to burden her anymore than he had to.

"Oh?" The Warden Commander raised an eyebrow and curiously cocked her head to one side. "What grave injustice tempts a man away from a feast and the company of a friend?"

"I am hunting a maleficar." Sebastian spat out the word as though it burned his tongue. "And I believe she came this way."

The Warden Commander coyly ran her tongue over her bottom lip in thought. "I see. And what would have you think a maleficar passed through Amaranthine? I do not accept apostates into the Grey Wardens."

"Her brother is a Grey Warden." Marcelle had mentioned Carver to him frequently, had even showed him some of her brother's letters. He'd read all about the commander that the young Aurora Cousland had become. He turned sharp blue eyes towards her. "Under _your_ command." She was not the same woman he had met in the Kirkwall Chantry all those years ago.

She ran her gauntlet delicately over the woolen material of his jacket. "Turn your accusatory stare," the Warden Commander said in a soft voice, holding Sebastian's gaze firmly, "in another direction, _Prince Vael._"

Sebastian's eyes narrowed and he removed his arm from hers. "Did she come through this way?" He folded his arms across his chest, which managed to frame both his stern expression and the brightly polished longbow on his back.

"I would help you, if I knew what you were speaking of. 'She.' "Maleficar.'" The Warden Commander sighed. "A name would be nice. I have so many Grey Wardens passing through here that I can sometimes barely keep up."

"Hawke," he ground out, "did she come this way or not?"

"Oh? Carver's sister? The Champion and Viscountess of Kirkwall?" The Warden Commander pursed her lips in thought. "Let me think…"

"_Aurora,_" Sebastian warned. "Do _not _trifle with me. I have come a long way."

The Warden Commander sent a sad gaze towards the Chanter's board. "She clearly means something to you," she said quietly.

Sebastian shook his head. His irritation was rising, brought upon by the Warden Commander's careless presumptions. "She means _nothing _to me." He believed his own lie.

But she did not believe it. "I see." She flicked her eye to the clouds as she considered what to say. She groaned when she saw two Templars come bursting out of the Chantry. "We have a lot of individuals hunting apostates in this part of Ferelden. You would not be the first person to mention that name to me."

The Prince of Starkhaven said nothing at her comment; he merely stared at her with a gaze as sharp as a sword point.

"Perhaps," the Warden Commander said after a few moments of thought, "I could entice you to join me at the Vigil? I often remember things better with a cup of tea in hand and a fire in the hearth. I may even recall some conversations that I overheard between the 'friendly' men and women who now occupy my city."

"You…"

"…are a fascinating, talented, _and _highly manipulative woman." The Warden Commander finished for him quickly. She clucked her tongue and smiled ruefully. "And I completely agree with all of your observations, my dear prince."

Sebastian gave another severe shake of his head, sending locks of his hair tumbling out of place. "Do not toy with me, Lady Cousland. My anger is not with you, but I will not have you stand in the way of justice."

The Warden Commander pulled away from him, feigning offense at his words. "I _only_ wished to understand and help where I could." She let out a frustrated sigh, pushing it fast through her teeth so that it came out as a hiss. "I have been nothing more than a proxy and a garrison for the Templars these past few months. I have had no explanations, no courtesies…not even a _thank you _for my hospitality. I thought you were…" _Different. _She looked over her shoulder at him, but with lips still parted, she paused and shook her head. "Nevermind what I thought." She waved her hand in a dismissive motion and strode away from him with her shoulders hunched. "Take the horse and go wherever it is you think you ought to go."

With her dramatic display, she was hoping to appeal to that side of him that was honorable, and not yet tainted with hatred.

She hoped it still existed.

Sebastian frowned at the Warden Commander, though he knew she couldn't see his expression since she was slowly walking away from him. It surprised him to realize that he felt…chastened by her words. She was likely under a lot of strain, and by the looks of things, she probably did not have anyone to share that burden with. She had come alone to see him, and she would return alone to her castle. "I am sorry, Lady Cousland," he stepped quickly to her side, "as a guest in your city, my behavior has been atrocious."

"I am a bit upset," the Warden Commander lied, "it is true. I had expected something different."

"Oh, Maker…" Sebastian sighed, feeling himself capitulate and buckle under the defensive way in which she shielded herself from the touch of his hand on her arm. "I can spend no longer than a day or two in your castle." Sebastian hated himself for making the concession, but beyond feeling sorry for her, he could also not afford to make the Arl of Amaranthine his enemy: not when he knew how much influence the charismatic, one-eyed Warden Commander had in Ferelden. "But I cannot dally."

His advisors had briefed him on the political situation in Ferelden before he'd left, since they had guessed he would likely cross paths with at least one of the country's five major powers. King Alistair ruled Ferelden with his queen-consort from Denerim, but there was apparently a growing feeling amongst many of Starkhaven's neighboring states that he was only a voice for the deals brokered by the other four major territories of Ferelden: the Arlings of Redcliffe and Amaranthine, and the two Teyrnirs of Gwaren and Highever. And the heads of all four locales were all intertwined in a web that had been woven squarely around the Warden Commander. She controlled Highever by way of blood, as Fergus Cousland was her beloved brother and last surviving family member. Gwaren was in her pocket by virtue of her rumored romance with Teyrna Anora Mac Tir's father, the late Loghain Mac Tir. And Redcliffe was intimately tied to Amaranthine by way of Arl Teagan, who was said to be smitten with the cold and stony Warden Commander. Though Teagan Guerrin did have blood ties to Alistair by way of his sister Rowan, Sebastian knew just how easily it was that a man could _forget _himself and his duty in the face of a woman's wiles.

"Two days at the most," Sebastian continued, choosing his words carefully. "I could not stay in good faith any longer than that. I have a duty to attend to, and I do not want to take up unnecessary space in your harbor."

"I understand," the Warden Commander's head bobbed in acknowledgement of his concern. "You and your men will have the full extent of Amaranthine's resources for as long as you are here. I'll make sure you are packed and on your way very soon."

"I…thank you."

The Warden Commander said nothing in response, and merely flashed him a winsome smile. "At the latest, three days."

It was all Sebastian could do not to clench his fists together and curse his luck at being delayed _yet _again.

The Maker was being exceptionally cruel.

* * *

><p><em>And thus Sebastian arrives! As for how things work in Ferelden, his advisors are...mostly right. Alistair yells at me bitterly to bring Eamon back because he's lonely, but alas, such things cannot happen. :(<em>

_We'll be seeing more of Marcelle and the Templars next chapter. I'm sorry if the jumps between Sebastian and Marcelle are a bit jarring. Its mostly done to show that their respective events are happening (near) simultaneously. _

__As always, thank you all for following along and reading! _ _


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

The Templars were disappointed that the mage had given them no sport. They had been told by Ser Karras that she was a powerful, dangerous apostate who called on spirits to do her bidding, and consequently they had been expecting a fight of epic proportions against the revered Champion of Kirkwall. They had assumed that her peaceful surrender in her Lothering garden had been just a front to hide her malicious intent. Yet, she had made no move to harm them. They had been with her for two full days and nights, and the mage in their care had not even so much as muttered a curse. With her hands tied before her and her skirts all muddy, she carried herself with a quiet dignity that unsettled them.

That is why on the fifth day, the youngest of the Templars snapped.

He'd thrown her a bit of bread for her breakfast, and when she had thanked him for it, crouching in the dirt to pick it up, he had lost his temper. He'd struck her with the back of his gauntlet, sending her eyes rolling back into her head and her body flying sideways to the ground. He watched one of her hands come to gingerly feel the swelling and bleeding at her lip. He saw her wince as she probed the cut his gauntlet had made, and then caught the faintest shimmer of blue light on the edges of her fingertips. "She's casting a spell!" he had cried in fear, anticipating retaliation for his attack. His sword clattered against his shield as he held it protectively in front of himself.

Templars were not well versed in the specifics of magical casting. Fingers glowing blue meant a variety of things: lightning, ice, a hex, a bolt of spirit energy, or a healing cantrip. In this case, it had been a healing cantrip meant to mend the cut on a split lip and dull the pain of bruised gums. Yet, it had been misinterpreted as an attack. And all at once, the fifteen templars that had come to hunt down Marcelle Hawke all drew their weapons and circled around her with their guards up.

Sitting in the dirt and the gravel, Marcelle watched from behind a veil of tousled hair as two templars approached. In their full armor, with their heavy cloth skirts, thick breastplates, and crested visors, all the Templars looked the same. Even when they spoke their voices were sexless, their voices obscured by the metal and resonance of their helmets. She had no idea if she was approached by two women, two men, or a man and a woman, but she supposed it mattered little. She could appeal to no one for help. None of the Templars would risk endangering the wrath of their fellows to assist her, if they were even of a mind to. Marcelle had overheard her father explaining to Bethany that sometimes Templars feigned sympathy to gain a mage's trust, and then used that trust against them. A friendly Templar in such a situation like the one Marcelle was in could prove to be more dangerous than an angry, armed Templar. But it mattered not, for neither of the Templars seemed to consider talking an option. Their helmets were on and their visors were down.

The first of the Templars placed the tip of their sword against her throat, tilting her head back so that she was forced to stare up at the grey sky above them. The point dug painfully into her skin, and the Templar even went so far as to puncture her pretty, porcelain veneer. A bright trail of red blood trickled down Marcelle's neck, the blood droplets splattering atop the collar of her dirty robe. If the Templar took malicious pride in seeing her bleed, Marcelle did not know. She could see, however, the Templar who had caused all the fuss looking at her with a grim expression on his face; an expression of _righteousness. _He thought he had done the right thing, and Marcelle could not blame him for his ignorance. After all, a healing cantrip _did _look especially like a spirit bolt. The energy for both spells came from the reservoir of power leant to her by Faith.

As she mused on this, the other Templar came to stand behind her. His shadow fell across hers, giving her an extra pair of arms and a square shaped head. She started when she felt the cold metal of his gauntlets clap on either side of her face, fingers squeezing against her cheeks. She felt the buildup of energy within his blood, the lyrium in him singing and resonating against her own connection to the Fade. As the singing and humming grew, Marcelle began to feel light headed. All around her the world fell into shades of grey, the colors first bleeding and dissolving then disappearing completely. He had disrupted her connection to the Fade, and had done so in an almost tender, careful manner. Most Templar abilities came in quick, short bursts that sent Marcelle's body flinging this way and that as her world was ripped asunder. But this had been a gentle tearing, like pulling a flower's petals. The Templar had been _kind, _in his own way.

Yet as gentle and kind as the Templar had been, it still did not stop the side-effects of the disruption of his lyrium infused smite. When the Templar pulled his hands away from her cheeks, she fell bonelessly to one side. Stunned and nauseous, her head spinning in a world made of grey and misty clouds, Marcelle could not even focus her eyes on the feet of her captors.

She could hear Ser Karras barking something loud and nasty at the Templars who followed him, and felt the movement of their feet on the earth as they picked up pace to follow him. Try as she might, she could not understand his words. They melded together in a garbled warbling. But tone was enough to decipher his intent: Ser Karras was bored and beleaguered. He was likely ordering his men and women to march onward.

Suddenly, a face appeared above Marcelle. One nameless, faceless Templar loomed over her, his mouth like a fish's and his eyes like a doe's. He held his helmet in his hands in front of him, having removed it to speak to her. Unable to make out the movement of his lips or concentrate on the words he was saying, Marcelle could merely step at him and live as though underwater. She did not understand what he said, but like Ser Karras, she could glean his meaning from his tone: "Try anything, and I will cut out your tongue."

Unable to walk on her own, it soon dawned on Marcelle what this Templar's purpose was. Above her, the Templar grunted and arranged his equipment so that he would have room for her. He hoisted her limp body over his shoulder.

"You do not have to fear me," she tried to say, but she found she had no control over her tongue or lips. A shapeless, formless sound pulled itself from her chest.

The Templar let out a noise of disgust and slapped Marcelle hard on the rear to quiet her. She could do nothing at the injustice and merely hung over the man's shoulder in the quiet silence of her induced stupor. Unable to move cohesively or speak coherently, she rested limply against the large Templar's body and allowed him to carry her.

It was not a particularly comfortable ride. Templars were healthy, fit individuals capable of marching long distances in the cumbersome armor if needed it. They could carry gear and wayward mages too, if it was required, though the Maker knew that their armor was not designed for the latter. The Templar's pauldrons had a ridge of steepled metal at its center, and it was this very same ridge that Marcelle's body was pressed upon. For the first several miles, the ridge had been nothing more than a discomfort for her limp body. But when the miles turned into hours, the ridge became an agony. As her control returned to her, she tried to squirm her body away from it, but found that each wiggle of her hips only caused the Templar to crush his arm tighter over her lower back and push her further into the ridge's sharp edge.

When it was that they came to the end of their march, the Templar threw her to the ground and left her to make camp with his brothers. He was not afraid she would escape; she had not resisted previously, and she would not resist now. And there were also a dozen eyes on the mage that was resting on her side in the dirt, her hands wrapped around her midsection as she wheezed in pain.

Dirty fingers probed at her injured side. Marcelle found that her robe had been torn, sliced all the way through by the drag and pull of the sharp ridge against the fabric. It had cut all the way down to her skin, and slipping her fingers in the robe's tear, she found that the ridge had cut into the skin below. Marcelle withdrew her fingertips and found them stained with blood. It was not a serious cut, but it would ache, and bruise, and it ran the risk of becoming infected. It would also take long to heal, for the majority of the damage was at the curve of her waist, and such an area was forced by necessity to shift and move as Marcelle did.

There was, unfortunately, only one thing to do.

Struggling to sit up, Marcelle hissed her skin pulled and puckered. She heard a Templar snicker in the distance, but persisted in sitting anyway. When she was resting on the sides of her thighs, Marcelle hunched forward and bowed her head. She observed the camp through her hair and her eyelashes, watching the Templars go about their business and arrange their bedrolls and set up their cooking fire.

When it looked as though they were all busy with their own menial tasks, she slipped two fingers to the gash at her side and muttered a simple cantrip below her breath. Warmth spread along the length of her cut and up her side, and she shivered in delight as the healing energy washed over her. Just as she pulled her hand away, she felt blackness drape itself over her eyes like a veil.

She slumped forward unconscious, having been struck from behind by a sword pommel.

* * *

><p><em>A short chapter, but now we know where Marcelle is and what she's been up to. What a wonderful time she's been having in the company of such fine, upstanding men and women.<br>_

_Sebastian and the Warden Commander at the Vigil is up next, followed by some of Sebastian's memories, of which there is art for. Don't have the art in my profile yet, but I will soon. _

_Oh! I'll be in Virginia until Friday/Saturday looking at a law school and potential apartments, so we may not have an update until later in the week. Though who knows, I'll have my laptop with me, and a whole plethora of time in the evening. _

_Thank you to to everyone who has been reading, reviewing, and alerting! I'm tickled at all the alerts! We're only eight chapters into Worth, and it already has half the number of alerts that _Trovommi Amor _has (though nowhere near the reviews, hehehehe) - and TA has 44 chapters! Sebastian loving lurkers abound, hm? Thanks again! _


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

"And then," the Warden Commander said, taking a delicate sip of her tea, "he threw _acid _on my face." She chuckled when she saw the look of abject horror on the prince of Starkhaven's face, his blue eyes widening and his full lips slowly parting as his jaw hung open. "Yes," she continued, voice taking on the characteristic drawl of the Fereldan nobility, "and there I was, lying and mewling on the ground as that _wretch_ of a Templar hovered over me. It took me by surprise."

Sebastian winced. "How can you talk about this so casually?"

"It has been a long time," the Warden Commander smiled kindly at her guest, "and I have come to terms with what has happened. I may not have lost my eye in a feat of daring, but the tale still makes for quite a story."

The Warden Commander and the Prince of Starkhaven were resting comfortably in the Warden Commander's study. They were seated in the two high-backed leather chairs that she reserved for social calls and book reading. Nestled between them was a tray of black, honeyed tea and a plate of freshly-baked eccles cakes. The Warden Commander had a half-eaten eccles cake resting on the plate on her knee, while Sebastian had only a mouthful of eccles cakes left between his long fingers. They were using the Warden Commander's best porcelain tea set, the beautifully crafted white cups and plates having been emblazoned in grey and silver with the same griffon-laurel crest that graced her armor.

As for that very same armor, the Warden Commander had opted to remove it from her person for her mid-evening meeting with the Prince of Starkhaven. Sebastian had done likewise, and both nobles were surprised to see the other _without _their armor on. The Warden Commander was glad to be out of the sight of Andraste, and Sebastian was surprised at just how much smaller the Warden Commander was without her plate. In place of their leather, plate, and chain mail, the two nobles were dressed in the finest, yet simplest, pieces they owned. Sebastian was wearing his thick black riding leggings underneath a tunic the color of his eyes. The Warden Commander had opted for a modest of gown of deep blue with matching eye patch, which she had embellished with a thick, braided chain of gold around her waist. The same twisting gold was used to secure her eye patch in place, the chain disappearing into her equally as golden hair.

Sebastian shook his head. "A painful story, Lady Cousland. I would not wish such a thing on anyone."

"Nor would I, but it has not been so bad. Actually, it became quite a boon, once I got used to it," she chuckled, placing her tea cup and saucer on the tray. "I had to train myself to fight differently, but that had its advantages. My opponents on the battlefield are only too happy to attack me from where they think I'm blind. It makes," she yawned in an almost comical fashion, smiling at Sebastian from over the top of her hand, "most battles pitifully short and predictable."

"I see." Sebastian placed the last bite of the cake into his mouth, chewing slowly as he reached for his tea cap. He stared into the black liquid, but he was unable to see his reflection. "You are very lucky, Lady Cousland." He took a deep sip, letting the sweet liquid sweep away the taste of currents and syrup the eccles cake had left behind.

"Luckier than some, yes." The Warden Commander settled back into her chair and folded her hands across her stomach. She traced her finger along the curling of the metal. "And I appreciate you asking me directly, rather than staring at me, or worse," she chuckled darkly, "_avoiding _staring at me. You would be surprised at the number of people who hold their tongue to not to be rude, and yet act exactly the opposite. Hopefully, that sated your curiosity?"

"To be honest," Sebastian took another deep sip of his tea before continuing, "I wish I had never asked. It makes my blood boil to think that a man could stoop so low and use such a dirty trick. Acid? That's a tool for cowards."

"When we are desperate," the Warden Commander mused, "we are capable of anything." She flicked her grey eye to Sebastian's.

Sebastian caught her stare, having noticed the sly squint of her eye and heard the curious tone of her voice. "You are taunting me," Sebastian chided slowly, placing his own teacup and saucer back on the tray. "That's not very nice."

"I am not a nice woman," the Warden Commander licked her lips, letting her tongue linger on the full curve of her top lip for a few moments before pulling her tongue back into her mouth. "But I am not taunting you."

"Then," Sebastian settled his forearms on his knees, leaning forward to look into the fire, "you are provoking me?"

"Even if I was, it does not appear to be working." She studied his strong profile, admiring the sharp angles and shadows of his features. "You should tell me about her. Why you want her?"

Sebastian let out a frustrated sound through his teeth. "By the way you talk and the silence of your servants and hallways, it would appear that you know enough already, Lady Cousland."

"I want to hear it from you." The Warden Commander was suddenly resting on her knees beside Sebastian's chair, her sword-worn and weather beaten hands resting delicately on the curve of his thigh. She peered up into his face, curls falling unbidden around her cheeks, disturbed by her swift movement. "I want you to tell me why you are hunting her."

Sebastian was taken aback by her sudden proximity, and he shifted in his seat away from her. He fell back against the heavy leather chair, pressing his cheek against its cold and studded back. But the Warden Commander was an overpowering, overwhelming force, and the firelight he saw in her earnest grey eye was all around him. The touches of her callused fingers were pervading his every sense, and the mellow tone of her voice resonated deep in his chest cavity. He closed his eyes, but she was still there, fingers touching his chin and drawing him to look at her. _Commanding _him to look at her. _Daring _him to look at her.

"Sebastian," she murmured, her hand trailing from his chin to his chest and then over his stomach before he opened his eyes again. "Tell me," the Warden Commander said more quietly, her voice a low and primal thing. "Tell me as a friend, Sebastian. That is all I ask. I will help, if I can. But I cannot help if I _do not know._"

Sebastian's eyes darted between her face and the fire for several moments, and it was with a loud sigh that he slumped in his chair in defeat. "What is it that you know already?"

"I know only rumors." She added more darkly, "and lies."

"What did the Templars tell you?"

"Propaganda. She is a mage; she is evil. I am often inclined to believe that the two walk hand in hand, but that one does not always preclude the other. It was hinted to me that she was at the heart of Kirkwall's current turmoil, but it has been very hard to distinguish fact and fiction. I cannot stand the swill that Varric Tethras has been shipping to Ferelden via _my _port."

"Swill?" Sebastian chuckled at that. "Well, for his size, Varric was always one for…tall tales. Have you read any of what he's written?"

The Warden Commander scowled. "Not in its entirety." She was lying, she'd read everything that Varric had sent to Ferelden. Not out of curiosity or appreciation for his story telling, but out of necessity. If trade with the Free Marches was going to suffer, the Warden Commander needed to be prepared. Sebastian, however, seemed to accept her lie and bobbed his head in thought.

"I see." He pinched the bridge of his noise in thought as unpleasant memories resurfaced. "Marcelle Hawke is wanted for devastating crimes against the Chantry and the people of Kirkwall. She is…complicit in the destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry. Complicit in the murder of Grand Cleric Elthina, and all the worshippers who were at service when the Chantry was destroyed."

"Complicit, you say?" interrupted the Warden Commander before Sebastian could continue on. "She was not responsible?"

"She was responsible." His gaze sharpened. "She _enabled _that apostate. She had been _helping _him for years. She gave him succor and strength when he deserved none. She is fully at fault for what happened in Kirkwall. I have to bring her to justice. And I will use her to bring _him – _that _maleficar _- to justice."

The Warden Commander raised an eyebrow in question, her chin resting atop her hands as she stared up at Sebastian from her place on the floor. "Name him. Who?"

"Anders," Sebastian ground out bitterly, "one of _your _former Grey Wardens." He took some measure of satisfaction when he saw her slowly press her forehead into his thigh, hiding her face out of sight. "He is a walking abomination, man and spirit merged. And she knew it. She would not kill him. She _let him go._ All those people dead, and she let him go."

"That is not," the Warden Commander said after some length, raising her head, "what I would have done. But tell me then, if Anders was the one who committed the crime, why do you not first go after Anders? A good friend once told me to remove the disease rather than the limb where I could."

"He is in hiding." Sebastian gave an angry exhale of breath. "His little mage underground has him well protected. I have tried to send scouts after him, but it has been to no avail."

"So, you intend to use Hawke as bait?"

"I intend to see that she is punished for her crimes and her negligence, and pray to the Maker that Anders thinks he can save her from them."

The Warden Commander breathed a small sigh of surprise. "I am surprised to hear that Anders and Marcelle were that close."

"I often found him skulking about her estate. He was no stranger to her home. I wish I was exaggerating, but there was not a single room that you could enter without finding some token or memento of his. I threw most of his _trash _in the fire when I could, but it kept returning."

"Perhaps he felt drawn to her because she was a mage?"

"Or he saw something in her that I had missed."

"Hmm," the Warden Commander frowned as she considered Sebastian's words, comparing them with what Marcelle had told her. She also took into account what she knew of the parties involved, specifically the enigma of Anders who Marcelle pitied and Sebastian hated beyond reason. "If you think that Anders will come to her defense," she began, "then I think that you are overestimating his sense of responsibility and loyalty." The Warden Commander's smile was grim. "For all that he preached equality and fairness for mages, I have never known Anders to be a selfless individual. He is cunning and rarely without some sort of motive. If," she advised, "he came to her rescue, he would do it because he wanted to become martyr. And then…" her voice dropped into a bitter, sardonic tone, "you would have defeated the whole purpose in letting him live to begin with."

"I…" Sebastian opened his mouth to agree, and then fell short at the Warden Commander's last few words. "What?"

"Do you truly think," the Warden rose on her knees and leaned forward so that her stomach rested flush against the side of one of his thighs, "that Anders expected to walk away from what he did?" She ducked her head and peered into his face, leaning in close enough so that their noses were touching. Her hands were grasping the arms of the chair, trapping Sebastian. She dropped her voice to a whisper, "Do you think Marcelle had planned to let him go?"

Sebastian's face became guarded, and he lidded his eyes as if doing so would protect his innermost thoughts from the woman in front of him. "That is a question to which I have no answer. All I know is that Hawke entered the Chantry with Anders one day, and the next, the Chantry was destroyed. You cannot tell me that she did not know that his intent was impure." He raised his eyebrows in challenge.

"I cannot tell you anything," she replied coyly, "only Marcelle can. Did you ever talk to her about this?" The Warden Commander's breath blew hot and sweet against Sebastian's cheeks, smelling of the mint-infused honey of their tea.

"No," Sebastian shook his head. "I was…too angry, too upset." Shamefully, Sebastian remembered the words he'd said to her. _I will return for you, and your precious Anders. And when I do, you will both know what true justice is._ The look on her face when he'd said those words…it still haunted him. There were times when he closed his eyes and all he could see was the loneliness on her face, and he imagined that a sky devoid of stars might look the same way. She had been alone, completely alone amidst the swirling of angry voices, the clash of swords, and the falling ash. He did not know whether to despair, or to clench his fists in anger. For all the remorse that he felt, she was still the one who had _ruined _their happiness. "But it doesn't matter. Her actions are not excused."

"You left without letting her explain," said the Warden Commander, her voice soft, but neutral.

"I lost everything dear to me in the span of only a few years. My birth family was murdered by politicians, and then my family in the Chantry was murdered by maleficars… listening to explanations of her misdeeds was the _last_ thing that crossed my mind, Lady Cousland. It still _is _the last thing on my mind."

"And what of losing Hawke then?"

Sebastian visibly bristled. "She was never mine to lose."

The Warden-Commander stifled the urge to roll her eye by closing it and turning her face towards the fire. She sighed. "I do not think that she is blameless," she said after some length, "but she is not the villain you assume her to be."

"You were not there."

"No," she agreed, turning her face back to him. "I was not. But I would not follow this path, Sebastian, not unless I was absolutely certain of her guilt. You are so incredibly certain," she touched her hand to his cheek, "yet, you have not even talked to her. You have built your assumptions upon a foundation made of cards, and Maker help you, my dear, dear, friend, should that foundation collapse."

Sebastian averted his eyes from her face towards the glowing embers of the fire. He gently removed her hand from his cheek, folding it atop the hand she had on his knee. "I have thought long and hard about this. I already know what I must do."

"Oh, Sebastian," the Warden Commander sent a look of pity to her friend and clasped his hands between hers, "I do hope that when the time comes, you will reconsider. You will regret it forever if you do not. I know," she said sadly, "that I have."

The Prince of Starkhaven said nothing, and suffered the touch of the Warden Commander for only a few moments more before he dismissed himself back to his rooms under an excuse of tiredness. He sent her a tight smile in farewell and touched her cheek fondly with his fingertips before he stood. "Goodnight, Lady Cousland," he said to the top of her head. His footsteps sounded like thunder as he left the study and the one-eyed woman kneeling on the floor in her blue dress behind.

* * *

><p><em>More on Sebastian's thoughts next chapter, including a flasssshhhhbbbaaackkk! We get to see a little bit of Sebastian and Marcelle before all the Chantry-exploding shenanigans. <em>

_Chapter 10 also has an awesome piece of art, so you can look forward to that too!_

_Just a quick update: I am returning back home to Massachusetts tomorrow, so I'll get cracking on _Worth_ Chapter 35 (or is it 36, I forget?) for the kmeme. Did not get much of an opportunity to do much writing in VA! But hey, classes and work are over, and we're just counting down the days to graduation now. I'll post Chapter 10 as soon as I get the new chapter all written up and posted._

_Thank you to everyone who has been following the story! I'm glad you've been enjoying it. :) _


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

Sebastian pulled the thick doublet over his head and gave a small sigh of relief when the chilly air of the guest room touched his skin. It had been unbearably hot in the Warden Commander's study, what with the fire, his doublet, the Warden Commander, and her prying hands. While he appreciated her concern as a friend, there was an intimacy – a forced intimacy – in her touches that gave Sebastian pause. In fact, much of what he had experienced during his short time at the Vigil gave him pause. There were many small inconsistencies when it came to the Warden Commander and her servants; she and the others watched him from the corners of their eyes, as if they knew something he didn't. It wasn't what they said or did, but rather the lack of it.

He had, for example, expected to see Carver Hawke at dinner that evening but the young man had been suspiciously absent. He had also expected to be bored into his stew by the Grey Wardens chattering about their duties and responsibilities, but the conversation over dinner had been particularly subdued. The only one who had been leading conversations at dinner had been the Arlessa herself, but she had only managed to pry one or two words out of her compatriots. The Grey Wardens had shifted about in their seats and slurped their stew noisily, but also nervously. Their break from traditional Grey Warden stereotype – the boisterous laughter, the camaraderie, the loud chatter – was what had given them way. The only politician and player of games in their midst was the Warden Commander, but Sebastian could at least respect the silence that the Grey Wardens kept. They were, after all, likely only following the Warden Commander's orders, and while they were doing a poor job of hiding it, they _were _following her orders well. He could not fault for them political inexperience, and it was a refreshing change of pace from Starkhaven where even the most novice of courtiers could participate properly in games of silence and intrigue (As an aside to both clever readers and clever princes, it has to be said that Starkhaven's politics are nothing compared to those of Orlais or Ferelden – though the games of gentle and courteous warfare within Starkhaven can indeed keep one up late at night.).

Thoughts of Starkhaven made Sebastian groan and he let his shoulders sag. Beyond just having to return to the duplicity of his court, he was also faced with, as his chief advisor had said, his "most pressing matter yet." He had meant, marriage of course, and Sebastian knew that even as he rubbed his shirt between his hands that his council was hard at work drafting the appropriate contracts. He had just managed to leave the port at Riversmouth before his councilmen could parade documents and portraits in front of him. He'd already heard the proposed names – princesses of Nevarra, countesses of Orlais, duchesses in Antiva… they had even debated putting forward Teyrna Anora Mac Tir of Gwaren as a suitable match. It made him ill to think that the Vael Throne hadn't even been warmed by his bottom before they were already telling him to marry. They were so obsessed with heirs, which struck Sebastian as ironic. His brother had had many children, but that hadn't saved his legacy, had it?

He wondered what it would be like to spite his advisors and not sire another Vael. Of course he knew he would do it eventually – he would have to – but in the interim, it gave him some amusement to think that he could live yet another life of celibacy, except this time wear the trappings of royalty. It might not be so bad. Others were leading such lives: the Empress of Orlais had no children, for example, nor did the Teyrna of Gwaren, or the Arlessa and Warden Commander of Amaranthine.

And it was not because the women weren't lovely, because they were. He had never seen the Empress of Orlais, but Sebastian knew that her beauty was one that was unparalleled across Thedas. He had also never seen the Teyrna of Gwaren, but he had seen her father, and Loghain Mac Tir had been an intimidating, but handsomely built man. He had been possessed of an unfortunately long nose, but he had an aristocratic bearing that more than made up for any physical irregularities. And of course, Sebastian had seen the Warden Commander with his very own eyes, and there was no denying that she was a beautiful woman… though it was a sort of beauty he was unaccustomed to. He was used to women who were soft and delicate (like Hawke, he inwardly admitted, or the Grand Cleric), with Aveline having been perhaps the exception. The Warden Commander, like Aveline, had a rugged handsomeness of face that he was beginning to associate purely with Ferelden, scarred and cloaked as she was in her mantle of frost.

Comparing Aveline and the Warden Commander to Hawke sent a pang of guilt through Sebastian. There was really no comparison between the women; Marcelle had been the loveliest of the three; the sweetest smelling rose. She had been the exception to the rule, having come from Ferelden as a delicate, lovely young woman and not encased in armor and thorns. And if all Fereldan women were like Aveline, then they could all break him as easily as Sebastian could bend his bow. However, he was always mindful of the fact that Andraste called Ferelden her homeland, and that women like Aveline and the Warden Commander were raised from the same barbarian stock, and that Andraste was probably more like her iron-clad kinswomen than the silken garbed Marcelle. And Andraste, he thought bitterly, would never have used her beauty to ensnare men. She would have had an _honest _beauty.

With a weary sigh and a foul taste in his mouth, he carefully draped the doublet over the back of a chair, mindful of how easily the silk could slip and fall to the floor. Smoothing the shirt over the edge of the chair, thoughts unbidden and unwelcome bubbled to the forefront of his mind. The feel of the fabric below his fingertips stirred memories of…_her _skin and her hair. On those rare occasions when Sebastian had embraced Marcelle, taking her into his arms to provide some shell of mortal comfort to her troubled mind, he'd had the opportunity to feel the smoothness of her skin and the softness of her hair. Warm and inviting as a dream of home, she had molded herself perfectly into the circle of his arms. But she had never lingered overly long there, which is why Sebastian supposed that the memories of her were so strong. She had him clutching in the dark for her, _yearning _for her. But he yearned for justice more.

The next time he took the mage in his arms, it would not be to embrace her and offer her words of support. It would be to bend her forward over one of the walls of Starkhaven, to show her face to Anders before he threw over the wall to dangle in front of the other mage. Kirkwall deserved – Grand Cleric Elthina deserved – at least that much. And when Anders shouted out bitterly that he was a coward, that he should never have used Marcelle as proxy for his revenge, Sebastian's finest troops would have crossed the Minanter River and surrounded him. There, Anders would meet a bloody end, stabbed to death by Starkhaven's loyal soldiers. He would be buried in an unmarked grave: unloved, unmourned, but most importantly unremembered. And anyone who came with him would meet the same fate. Sebastian had rehearsed the scene in his head each night before he'd fallen asleep; it brought him closure and the peace in his soul that he so longed for.

The greatest punishment that Sebastian could think of was death. In death, all souls were cast on their knees before the Maker to be judged. There was no hiding one's sins and transgressions from His ever watchful gaze. Those souls deemed worthy would pass on into paradise by the Maker's side, and those who were seen to be weak and rotten were given to the Void. Anders deserved to be given to the Void, no matter what Aurora Cousland or Marcelle Hawke thought. What other alternative could there be? The only other option was to let Anders live – to languish in a prison cell where he would _still _be thought of as a martyr and could still spread his influence throughout the land. No, a quick end and a sudden disappearance were necessary.

He reached his arms over his head and stretched, and then scrubbed his palms over his face to reinvigorate himself and center his attention on matters that were not soft, blonde, and fluttering beneath his fingertips like the heartbeat of a small bird. He did not like this idleness. The knot in his stomach twisted and grew when he thought of his quarry escaping into the Fereldan wilderness. Every moment he delayed was another step away Marcelle took from him and another moment longer that Anders could be spreading his hatred and sinful messages. The possibility of another group of innocents meeting the same fate as what happened in Kirkwall sent waves of rage and anxiety coursing through his body.

To calm himself and hopefully aide in his sleep, he took full use of the bath the Warden Commander had offered, finding the water hot and steaming for him behind the privacy screen in a corner of the room. And, as if anticipating his needs, she had also provided him with foam, a razor, and a variety of small little vials filled with clear, spicy-smelling liquid. He knew he needed to shave; he had not done so for several days and he was already sporting the shadow of a beard. If he let such a slovenly behavior go for another week or so his chin would disappear completely.

Peeling off his leather trousers, socks, and boots, and tossing them either at the foot of the privacy screen or over it, Sebastian sank into the wooden tub. Hot water sloshed over the lip of the tub and pooled around the soles of his boots, and Sebastian apologized to the air for the mess. He reached for the small washcloth that was resting beside the shaving kit and one of the small vials of liquid. He poured a small amount of the liquid onto his finger and tested its consistency. Satisfied with how it felt (and smelt), he dipped his washcloth into his bath water and then poured the soapy substance over it.

He ran the cloth over his shoulders and across the back of his neck, the heady scent of autumn and summer spices making him drowsy. He scrubbed vigorously at his nape and then down his back, trying to remove the sweat and grime accumulated from his time at sea. Maker help him, but he could not remember living in such a perpetual state of…well, _stickiness. _The salt water had clung to everything, and it was with relief that he felt the last traces of the ocean wash away into the bath water.

Pouring more of the vial's contents onto the washcloth, he scrubbed at his chest and under his arms, letting the soap and the water wash away the sweat of the day. The soap clung possessively to the small curls that spread across the top of his chest, but it was no match against the water Sebastian splashed over it. He had moved the washcloth lower over his abdomen, and was about to attend to his unmentionables when a large thud against one of the walls startled him.

"Who's there?" he called into the gloom of the candle lit room, but there was no answer. There was only the crackling of the small fire and the gentle howling of the wind outside.

Wary of being watched (or attacked…), the rest of Sebastian's bath followed in a blur. The only time he slowed was to shave, and this he did out of necessity. A slip of the fingers or an unsteady hand would have been dangerous at the worst and inconvenient at the least. When he attended breakfast with the Warden Commander and her fellows, he did not want to be sporting painful cuts – or missing his head.

Perching the mirror on the edge of the bathtub, Sebastian lathered his face with the foam and picked up the razor. He dipped it into the bathwater to heat it, and tilting his head up, he dragged the razor down the side of one cheek, flicked his wrist, and then dragged it down the length of his neck. The razor slid with a satisfying _hiss _across his skin. He dipped the razor into the water to clean it, and then drew the edge of its blade under his chin. He repeated this process of dipping and scraping until the foam had been cleared from his face. He wiped what little foam remained away with his washcloth, and feeling appropriately cleansed, he stood.

There was another thunk against one of the walls, and Sebastian hastily grabbed the large towel beside the tray and wrapped it around his waist. He would have to speak to the Warden Commander about the possibility of her having _very large rats _hiding in the walls of her castle. He ran his hands through his hair and squeezed the water out of it before padding away from the privacy screen and to the large sack that one of his knights had rode out to bring him. He pulled out a clean tunic and smalls, and slipping them on, he folded the towel over the privacy screen and climbed into bed, blowing out the candle as he did so.

The sheets were cool against his skin, soothing what aches still remained in his muscles from the bath. He was reminded again how much he enjoyed the comfort and safety of a _real _bed. He thought his neck might snap in two if he was forced to sleep in a hammock for yet another night. The pillow below his head was damp from his hair, but it was soft, full of feathers, and wonderfully supportive.

His bed in the chantry had felt a lot like this bed. Nestled in the quarters reserved for Chantry Brothers and Laymen, Sebastian's bed had been little more than mattress sack of straw and horsehair, with a smaller sack of goose feathers layered atop it for comfort, but he remembered it being splendidly comfortable. It had been firm where he needed it, easing a stiff back from where he had knelt or stood for too long in prayer. But it had also been soft, and he could remember many nights when he'd sunk blissfully down upon it, too weary to say anything more than a simple chant in thanks to the Maker.

He turned on his side and buried his face in the pillow, inhaling deeply. It smelt of soap, and sunshine. It smelt unused, and nothing like his pillows – his bed - in the Chantry. His pillows there had smelt like spindleweed and elfroot. And like Marcelle.

He had never been able to get the smell of Hawke out of his pillows, not since he'd found her there that one evening long ago…

_With vespers having ended, Sebastian saw the last of the faithful out of the Chantry. The air in Kirkwall was chilly, and he knew that it would only be a few more weeks before autumn and its storms hit the city. The Chantry always saw an influx of worshippers at that time, and he made a small note to himself that he would need to add extra rows of pews to accommodate them. He would need to get the storeroom key from the Grand Cleric, and he would probably have to enlist the aid of several of the Sisters to help him…_

"_Young man?" _

_Sebastian looked away from the horizon and turned his attention to the wizened old woman standing in front of him. She was the matriarch of one of Kirkwall's old families, though Sebastian could not remember her name. _

"_Serrah?" he greeted with a smile. _

"_I just wanted to say how inspired I was by your sermon today." She placed a gnarled and wrinkled hand on his forearm and gave it a surprisingly firm squeeze for a woman of her age. "You have a gift for reciting the Maker's words."_

"_I," Sebastian colored, "thank you. You are kind to say so."_

"_It is a shame," the woman continued, "that you have pledged yourself to the Chantry. I have a granddaughter that could use an eloquent speaker such as you for a husband. All the men in Kirkwall are either doddering old fools or stuttering youths."_

_Sebastian's eyes widened. "I…am sure that she will find a man worthy of her, in time, serrah."_

"_Yes," the old woman did not seem convinced. "We'll see. You can officiate the wedding, if we ever find one worthy of her." _

_Sebastian released the breath he hadn't even known he'd been holding when the woman finally released him and went on her way. There was always at least one woman each week who thought he would be the perfect match for her daughter, granddaughter, or sister. When he was younger, he had enjoyed the attention; it reminded him of the days before he had been imprisoned in Kirkwall's cloister and it brought him comfort and a feeling of normalcy. Now several years older and having come and gone from the Chantry too many times than was proper, he didn't know what to think about it. On some days he was flattered, and others he was shamed. _

_He was the last of his line, and Starkhaven needed heirs. Being desirable as a husband ensured that his family's legacy would live in. _

_But the Maker needed him, and being desirable would only lead him to temptation and sin. _

_It was a philosophical quandary that Sebastian had no answer to. The Maker had made him as he was, and thus the burden was Sebastian's to bear. _

_Sebastian sighed and shook his head. His hand tightened on the handle of the Chantry's open door, and he was about to pull it shut for the evening when a piercing shriek split the night air. The screech came from overhead and sent a chill through his blood, and he looked up in time to see a small blur of brown pass under the stars above him and into the Chantry. Like an arrow shot from heaven, the brown projectile angled downward, until it came to a crashing stop some place on the sanctuary. _

_With a strong tug of his arms, Sebastian pulled the door shut and wiped his suddenly sweaty hands on his pants before he set out after the source of the commotion. He stalked through the pews, keen eyes scanning for signs of disruption in the hazy interior of the Chantry. Sisters were mulling around the stacks of books and artifacts, their faces turned to the statues of Andraste flanking the sanctuary in a combination of curiosity and fear. Sebastian passed their shuffling feet and whispering robes, giving them reassuring smiles as he approached the Chantry's center. With measured steps he ascended to the sanctuary, and there his eyes fell upon what appeared to be a small brown and white bundle resting atop the book he had been reading sermons from. The breeze from an open window high above them sent what appeared to be fur, or fluff, or feathers rustling in the air, and Sebastian was overcome with pity. The creature had taken quite a fall. _

_Curiously, Sebastian approached the round bundle of brown and white fluff that rested atop the Sermons of Divine Renata I. He reached out a cautious finger, stroking his fingernail along what appeared to be feathers, and gave a start of surprise and withdrew his hand when the small bundle shook and righted itself. The creature was not dead, as he imagined it must be after falling so quickly and so fast, on the contrary! It was very much alive. _

_Unfurling and shaking itself from its daze, the creature fluffed its feathers and spread its small wings halfway before pulling them back to its body. The face of the bird gave it away almost immediately. A round head with large golden eyes peered up at him. The head sat atop an equally round body, which was composed of a series of white feathers at the breast and brown feathers along its back and head. Its otherwise solid coloring was speckled with tiny flecks of grey and white, giving it a mottled appearance. _

_"What is an owl doing in the Chantry?" asked Sebastian aloud, crouching close to take a better look at the bird that had collapsed midflight. It appeared none the worse for wear, though its feathers were matted and ruffled from the flight. Its chest was also rising and falling far too quickly for Sebastian's liking, and he suspected that it had been injured in some way. There were nocturnal birds far larger and nastier than this diminutive owl, and perhaps one of them had knocked it off course or attacked it in flight? He would have to check the owl for injuries to assess what had really happened, but from his cursory observation and a quick circling of the owl he could find no blood. The pages of the book were as immaculate and white now as they were during the sermon. _

_Ducking down once more to stare at the curious little bird, Sebastian considered what to do with the small creature. It could not stay in the sanctuary, nor could it make its resting place within the Chantry on a permanent basis. But if it was injured (and Sebastian could not believe that it wasn't), it was his duty to try to aid it. The Grand Cleric would probably not disapprove of him tending to the owl until it was well enough to fly on its own again, even if it meant keeping the owl in his quarters. _

_Did he have a place to put it? Sebastian chewed on his lip in thought, watching as the owl tilted its head up and down to look at him. He had a small wooden box where he kept the letters his brothers had sent him. He supposed he could stuff it with an old work shirt and socks to make it a suitable nest for the creature. As for food, there were plenty of worms and insects in the Chantry's gardens. They would have to do, since the Chantry's mousers had made sure that there were no mice or rats within the sacred walls. The plan seemed altogether sound, and he decided that was exactly what he would do. His mind made up, he took a deep breath and addressed the creature. _

"_I am going to pick you up, little one," he said in a soft voice to the owl. "I mean you no harm. Please, don't scratch me overly much." _

_If the owl understood him, he did not know. It merely regarded him with its wise, if not slightly wide-eyed, stare. Its eyes flicked to his hands as he moved them, watching them come closer to cup underneath its body. At the first touch of his fingertips against its feathers, the owl's eyes focused back on his face, and then closed. _

_Sebastian cupped the small owl in both hands, wincing slightly as he felt the owl's sharp talons flex against the flesh of his palms. One of the talons managed to break the skin, and he hissed. The talon immediately retracted itself, leaving a trail of blood in its wake. He brought the bird up to his chest, resting it against his heart to give the bird extra support. He did not expect the owl's feathers to be so soft, and he found his fingertips idly smoothing back and forth over the owl's head and back. _

_With careful steps, he made his way upstairs to the second level where his quarters were. "I am going to have to hold you with one hand," he explained gently to the owl, "while I open the door." The door to his quarters was locked, and he would have to use the key he had in his pouch to open it. "Do not be alarmed. I will not drop you, little owl, I promise."_

_The owl's only response was a sudden fluffing of its feathers. _

_Sebastian gently pushed the bird closer to his chest and removed his left hand. He slipped it beneath the flap of the small pouch he kept at his hip and skillfully retrieved the small, copper key. He slipped it into the door, and with a soft clicking of the locking mechanism, he pulled it out and stashed it in the pouch again. The door's hinges creaked as it swung inwards, and Sebastian reflexively tried to cover the bird's head to shield it from the sound. Whatever he had done had been ineffective, for the owl gave a sudden tremble at the noise and its beak nipped at his palm. _

"_Maker…" he hissed, shutting the door behind him with his foot. Despite his frustration with the bird, he refused to let the door slam shut. The poor creature was merely afraid and it meant him no ill will. _

_The box that Sebastian had in mind was tucked neatly in the large wooden trunk kept at the foot of his bed. He would have to place the owl down somewhere if he was to retrieve it. His bed seemed the best option, and he carefully lowered himself upon it. "I am going to put you down for a few moments, little owl."With steady hands, he gently tugged the owl away from his chest and placed it carefully upon the bed. _

_The owl rested serenely where he placed it. Its head bobbed from one side to the other as it observed him, but it made no motion to move. It seemed content to just watch him, and Sebastian could not resist a final touch of the owl's soft feathers. He placed two fingers to the owl's head and lightly stroked the top of it. The owl's eyes closed and it let out a strange chittering sound as he rubbed the back of its head. _

"_If someone were to scratch my head," he said to the creature with a gentle smile, "I would probably make the same noise and expression too." He indulged himself (and the creature) for a few moments more before he withdrew his hand. Eventually, the owl would have to be set free and it was best that he did not get attached to it. _

_Sebastian rose, keeping one hand on the goose feather and straw mattress so that his movement did not disturb the small bird that was resting amidst his sheets. When his weight was on his feet, he pulled himself into a standing position and quickly made his way to the chest at the foot of his bed. The key in his belt pouch was in his hand once more, and he slipped it into the lock. He flipped the gnarled, wooden lid open and plucked out the small box of letters he kept stashed away. Blood from the cut the owl's talon had made in his palm dripped onto the topmost letter, and Sebastian gave a weary sigh. Holding his injured hand in the air, he carefully used his free hand to remove the letters from the box and placed them in the space the box had taken up. He then shut the lid and placed the now empty box on the edge of the bed. _

"_I am going to go to the storeroom," he said to the owl, which had ducked its head low against its body and had its eyes shut, "and tend to the little scrape you've given me. I will return."_

_The owl did not even so much as open its eyes as he shut the door behind him. _

_Sebastian made his way to the storeroom and easily found what he was looking for: some crushed elfroot and a strip of boiled cloth to keep the poultice in place. He carefully dabbed the elfroot into the wound, hissing as the herb's natural cleansing properties began to treat the surprisingly deep cut. He then wrapped the boiled cloth around his palm. Come the morning, the cut would likely be healed and he wouldn't need the bandage anymore. _

_Satisfied, Sebastian returned the jar of crushed elf root to the shelf and made his way back to his room. When he opened the door, he thought his eyes and heart might explode out of his chest, for there on the bed where he had placed the wounded owl was a naked Hawke. _

_She lay exhausted atop his sheets, the swells of her creamy breasts rising and falling with her deep, even breaths. Her face was tilted away towards the far wall, and the shadow of a bruise could be seen growing along the edge of her jaw. She had one arm raised above her head, her fingers tangled in the edges of her hair as she pressed her cheek into the pillow. Impossibly long legs, well-shaped and as pale as the rest of her body, were curled underneath her, giving Sebastian a glimpse of her curved bottom. _

_There was so much wrong with the situation, and he did not know where to place his eyes. Everywhere he looked he could see her exposed form. Staring at her while she was naked and vulnerable was disrespectful. It was a sight not meant for him, only her husband, or a physician… only men other than him should see her as such. Only the man she pledged herself to under the Maker's eyes should know that the pebbled buds of her nipples were the same pink as her lips, or that the thatch of curls between her legs was darker than the roots of her hair. Oh, Maker, he should not know these things about her, should not know the secrets that were to be shared only between a man and wife. _

_But now he did know these secrets, and Sebastian had to cover his eyes to stem his shame. Doing so helped focus his thoughts, and he immediately reached for the sheet that covered one of the spare bunks and tugged it away. With the sheet in hand and raised above his face, he marched with determined steps to the woman resting in his bed and draped the fabric over her. The sheet clung to the mounds of her breasts and the contours of her body with wicked intent, but it was the best Sebastian could manage at that moment. _

_He moved to walk away, thinking to find her some clothes, but he stopped when he heard her call out to him. _

"_Sebastian," she murmured, the sheet rustling about her as she tiredly pushed herself into a sitting position. She was clutching the sheet to her chest with one arm, and the other was running itself through her golden hair. Gooseflesh had risen along her skin, and she shivered. _

"_Hawke, I…" Sebastian wrung his hands behind his back as he stared at her, "what…are you doing here?" _

_She frowned and stared at her knees. "I had nowhere else to go." _

_Something in the tone of her voice caused Sebastian to abandon all thoughts of hiding in the nearest confessional. Hawke…Marcelle…needed him. He found his feet were carrying him to her side, and he settled himself on the edge of the adjacent bed. He rested his elbows on his knees and leaned towards her. She smelled like the night air: cool, crisp, and fresh. "What happened, Marcelle?"_

"_I was on the right side of a conflict," she chuckled sadly, "and ended up paying the loser's price." She held up her hand, and Sebastian saw that a large cut had been made into her palm. _

_He looked at her helplessly. "I do not know what it means. You know that I'm rubbish at riddles."_

"_My father," she said quietly, "had one of these." _

"_A hand?"_

_Marcelle covered her mouth to hide her laughter. "Good Maker, I would hope so. No," she showed him her palm again, "he had one of these cuts. His scar had faded into the creases of his hand, but I remember the sight of it, the feel of it. It is the mark of a Circle Mage." _

"_Are you…" Sebastian's eyebrows raised in sudden understanding, "part of the Circle then? I thought you said you had some sort of diplomatic immunity from Knight Commander Meredith?"_

"_I…don't think I am. No," she shook her head. "I cannot be part of the Kirkwall Circle of Magi. They may have my blood, but as far as I know," she seemed disturbed, "they have not bound it to me. And I have to be in Templar custody for them to welcome me into the fold. And as you can see," she pulled her hand to her chest, and the sheet drooped to reveal the profile of a milky white breast, "I am not in the Gallows any longer."_

"_How did you even get in the Gallows?"_

"_I was in Darktown…" Marcelle lifted her large blue eyes to the ceiling as she considered what to say next, "having been asked by the Knight-Lieutenant to investigate rumors of apostate mages. I found them," she explained, "but as we were speaking, the Templars found us and they overwhelmed us. They asked no questions, did not even address us. They simply attacked, and as you well know, magic is useless against them." _

_Sebastian frowned. "But why would you go alone? Why did you not ask Fenris or Aveline to go? Why would you not come ask me?"_

"_I was asked to be discreet," she replied dryly. "Unfortunately, I would not consider a group of my friends as 'discreet.' A guard in full Kirkwall guard regalia would have sent the apostates running. Fenris only has to look at a mage to provoke them to attack. And you..." Marcelle winced in what Sebastian wanted to assume was embarrassment, "you are always so busy." _

"_I could make time for you," he protested loudly, sitting up straight. "All you have to do is ask, Hawke. You've done so much for me, I'd be a cad not to reciprocate." _

_Marcelle's cheeks flushed pink. "I would never ask it of you." She shot him a tender smile and then winked at him. "Truly, I know that you will always prefer Andraste's company over mine, and I promised myself I would not turn into Maferath over it." _

_Sebastian's eyes widened in surprise, and then narrowed into an expression of serious concern. "Hawke, you could never be Maferath. I have no lands for you to covet, and Andraste is not about to raise me to her side." _

_She tilted her head towards him, hair spilling over her shoulder as she did so. "That is not true. You have Starkhaven." _

_He shifted uncomfortably on the bed. "I…suppose that is true. But if you want Starkhaven, you may have it, with my full blessing. It would save me a world of trouble if you took it."_

_Marcelle closed her eyes and shook her head. "I can barely stand to listen to Orsino and Meredith argue. I imagine that I would not last a day in the Starkhaven court." _

"_You have survived well enough as Viscountess of Kirkwall." _

"_I have had many years proving myself to these people. I could not just walk into Starkhaven and take what I think is mine."_

"_Now you understand my dilemma."_

"_Mmm," Marcelle reached out a slender arm and placed her hand on his. "You were born there Sebastian. The people will remember that, should you choose to walk that path. And if you do not…" she pulled her hand away, letting her fingertips drag across the backs of his knuckles, "I will be glad to have you in Kirkwall with me." _

_Sebastian said nothing, merely stared at the place where she had touched his hand. _

"_Do you mind if I stay here tonight?" she asked quietly. "I will understand if you say no. I do not want to endanger the Chantry by my presence, but I would feel more comfortable resting in a place where I can call for sanctuary should the Templars decide to break protocol…"_

"_Break their protocol?"_

_Marcelle licked her lips. "I suppose this would make sense if I finished the story. I apologize in advance for my poor story telling skills. I can't quite weave a tale like Varric."_

_Sebastian shrugged. "That hardly matters to me." _

"_Ah." Her eyes roamed around the room for a few moments before she settled them once more on his face. "Well, when the Templars attacked, I was knocked unconscious during the fighting. I think one of them stunned me, or I was collateral damage in one of the apostate's attacks…it does not matter which it was, since the end result was the same. I do not remember much about what happened. I recall the smell of the sea and the cry of gulls, and the feeling of being dragged across uneven stones in a cobbled courtyard. I do remember waking up in a small room, huddled with the apostates the Templars had captured. They must have taken the blood sometime shortly before then, because I have no recollection of receiving this cut on my hand…" She shook her head, "but the cut was there when I awoke. Oh," she took a moment to pause as she gathered her thoughts, "it was so quiet in that little room. One could have gone deaf from it. There was only the sighing and sobbing of bitter mages and the droning of faraway Templars in prayer."_

"_But they came for you?"_

"_Of course. When they did it was to drag us through the Gallows in chains." _

"_They chained you?"_

"_Around our wrists and ankles to stop us from escaping. It was…" her shoulders drooped, "humbling." _

_Sebastian stilled the urge to rest one of his hands on the curve of her shoulder. Instead of offering her physical touch as consolation, he resorted to giving her a half-smile of encouragement. "The Maker puts us through many trials."_

"_That he does, and he also grants us many boons, for the Gallows courtyard was empty as the majority of the mages were locked in their cells and the Templars were in their chapel attending their vespers. The Knight Commander and Knight Lieutenant were among them, and so they did not see me being dragged through the Gallows and into the central spire." She touched her hand to her jaw and fingered the bruise there. "A Templar struck me and threw me into a small room with only a pinhole of a window overhead. He said that the Knight Commander would come to interrogate me and the other mages." Despite the weariness of her tone, she smiled. "I do not think he knew who I was." _

"_How could he not recognize the Champion of Kirkwall?"_

"_The Templars do not get out much," said Marcelle sadly. "I would probably not recognize me on sight, if I had never been introduced to me before." _

_Sebastian was not convinced of that. The Champion of Kirkwall had been an ever present companion in his mind since the moment he'd first seen her after posting his bounty on the Chanter's board. There had been something haunting in the unfathomable depths of her blue eyes that always drew his thoughts back to her. But he elected to keep these thoughts to himself, and merely nodded at her to continue. _

"_When he left, I escaped." She stretched out her arm, as if in demonstration, and stared down the length of it. "I turned myself into a bird and flew away." _

"_You turned into a bird to escape Knight Commander Meredith?" Sebastian asked with some surprise, unsure if he was more shocked by the fact that she could turn into a beast, or that she had run from the very thing she had sought to preserve. "Hawke, you will have to forgive me for being so blunt, but I have heard you advocate the Circle as a place for mages many times. Why would you abandon it and not heed your own judgment?"_

_Marcelle was not angry when she spoke, but then Sebastian did not expect her to be. She rarely got angry, and he had only ever heard her raise her voice in combat, and even that was to shout commands and spells. _

"_Were I not the Viscountess, or even the Champion of Kirkwall for that matter, I would not have fled. And I do not say this out of vanity or a love for power, but out of the influence that my person wields." She sighed. "Of all the Templars in the Gallows, Meredith would most certainly know and recognize me." She shifted on the bed so that she was now facing Sebastian, rather than merely turned towards him. She extended one leg over the edge of the bed, and the sheet fell away from it to reveal the curves of her thigh and hip. "And while she and I are not enemies, she is not someone that I would count amongst my close friends, either. She is a good woman, but she is blinded by her conviction. I feared what she would do to Kirkwall, and what balance of power I would tip in her favor if she somehow managed to make me a mage of the Circle. No, I do more good for the city unbound – if only to delay the inevitable a little longer. So I escaped, seeking sanctuary and solace in the one place that would give me it." _

"_The Chantry," Sebastian said quietly, and he watched as she nodded. _

"_The Chantry," she repeated, and she flashed him a smile that was as gentle as it was wise. "Anders may not believe that the Chantry can offer succor to mages, but I have always believed differently. I know that the Grand Cleric would shelter me if I asked it of her. And," she finished quietly with a shy smile, "you would too." _

_Sebastian found himself blushing and opened his mouth to speak, but he was quickly silenced by the hand that Marcelle had placed to his lips. _

"_Before you say anything," she said, "I want you to promise me that you will tell no one of what happened today. Do not breathe a word of this to Anders. I…worry about what he will think. This could push Justice over the edge." _

_Talk of Anders soured Sebastian's mood, and he gently tugged away the soft fingers that were brushing against his parched lips. Her fingers smelled like the open ocean and the salty sea wind. "You have my word," he said, "that I will not tell Anders or any of the others about what happened to you today." It unnerved Sebastian that her first concern was about _Anders.

"_Thank you," she breathed, wrapping her fingers around his. _

"_Now," Sebastian glanced over his shoulder to the door, "are you absolutely certain that the Templars will not come after you?"_

"_My father never told me much of the Circle Tower and its policies, or even many of the details about how apostates were hunted, only that they were. But I do not think the Templars will come. They may have my blood, but I suspect it lacks…" she searched for the word, "an appropriate agent of magical binding. It is not bound to me, so they cannot use it against me. Though," she gave a rueful chuckle, "I could be wrong." _

"_Well," Sebastian settled her hand into her lap and stood, "in the event that you are and the Templars come tonight, they shall have to go through me first." He gestured to the bow that was resting lovingly against the far wall. He could not help the heat that spread down his neck at the appreciative way the mage beside him stared at him. He cleared his throat nervously. "I am going to tell the Grand Cleric that you are with us for the night. And…" he swallowed, "I will find you something to wear also."_

"_We could not," she said throatily, "have me fleeing the Chantry stark naked, now, could we?"_

_Sebastian shut his eyes at the image. "No, indeed we could not."_

* * *

><p><em>Chapter 10's corresponding picture is now linked in my profile. As always, feel free to let Lady Winde know she did an excellent job on the piece!<em>

_The mystery of the phylactery gets solved next chapter. Surprise, Marcelle, it isn't always the devil you know but the devil you don't! _

_Thank you to everyone who has been reading _Worth_ and following along with the story. Special thanks also go out to those of you who took a peak at _Trovommi Amor _(Hi, naomis8329!). You are very brave indeed. _


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11 **

"They march you very far, don't they?"

"They do, Faith."

Marcelle and Faith were sitting side by side in the memory of the Hawke Family's home in Lothering. The memory was frozen in time, depicting six year old Bethany and Carver playing cards at the table, while their father and mother were sharing a much-needed hug in front of the crackling fire. The fire was warm and the smell of mutton stew was permeating through the air in the most delicious of ways. Marcelle and her father had been the ones to prepare it, dropping in chunks of gnarled carrots and potatoes pulled from their garden, as well as thick hunks of mutton and back bacon that they had bartered for earlier that day with Malcolm Hawke's healing salves. If Marcelle remembered correctly, they had thought to make creamy flour dumplings that night to accompany the stew, but there was no more flour to be had in the house – a fact that they had realized too late.

"Why do you return to memories, fledgling?" asked Faith. He was resting awkwardly against the wall, the rickety stool beneath him supporting the massive bulk of his armor by sheer force of Marcelle's will alone. "Why would you not craft your own fantasy?"

"Is that with my father used to do?" countered Marcelle, her head leaning against the wall. "He used to craft his own worlds?"

"No. He did as you do. Your father enjoyed walking his memories. Perhaps even more than you do."

"What sort of memories did my father return to?"

"I would not know," Faith replied. "He did not invite me into them, as you have done."

Marcelle chuckled. "I had not realized that there was a choice."

"You may bid me to go, fledgling, and I will do so." Faith turned his head towards her and peered at Marcelle through the slit in his visor, "though if a demon was to enter your memory and corrupt it, I would not be able to assist you until you rescinded my ban."

"Oh, Faith," Marcelle touched her hand to his knee, hiding her start of surprise as the contact sent a shock of spirit energy through her body. She should have been used to the jolt, but she was not. "I have nothing to hide from you, my dearest friend."

"That is good." Faith returned once more to staring out at the scene of the happy family in front of him. "Though I have little doubt that you would be able to handle one appropriately."

"Thank you, Faith." She bumped him with her shoulder playfully. "Your confidence is inspiring. Tell me something though," she squeezed his knee (his poleyn, to be precise) gently, "why did my father ask you to leave?"

If spirits of the Fade could sigh, Marcelle was sure he could have done so. "I do not know. He said it would be awkward."

"Awkward," Marcelle echoed, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes. And that having me there would also be awkward."

"Oh," Marcelle shook her head, "oh, _Father_."

"He must have been telling the truth."

She licked her lips. "Did it hurt your feelings?" Marcelle couldn't imagine what Faith might have been like before they met. Faith likely had been an incredibly awkward companion, and probably quite overbearing given what other limited contact she'd had with other spirits (such as Justice). Her father must have been a considerable influence on Faith, as for a spirit he was quite used to the ways of mortals. He did not always understand Marcelle, but he did try his best to do so. And if he could not, he was more than happy to believe that she was right or telling the truth, for such was the nature of a Spirit of Faith.

"No."

"Well," Marcelle crossed her legs and folded her hands in her lap. "It would have hurt mine."

"I do not always understand the ways of mortals, but your father was a good man and would not lie; least of all lie to me."

"I bet he was dreaming about Mother." Marcelle smiled widely at that.

"Perhaps." Faith pointed a gauntlet to where Marcelle's siblings were playing a card game. "Your brother is not a man of much faith."

"No," Marcelle looked sadly at the young face of her brother, and how sweet and innocent his profile looked by the light of the fire, "he is not. He would argue he isn't because faith never gave him a reason to believe."

"I pity your brother."

"He is who he is." She shrugged and tore her eyes from his face.

"The man whose face the desire demons wear – Sebastian – he has faith." Faith said in a matter of fact voice.

"He used to." Marcelle let out a small, embarrassed laugh. "I do not know if he does anymore."

"He will find it again." And Faith said this with such finality that Marcelle really could not find it in herself to argue. He turned his helmet to look at her once more. "Just as he will find you."

"And you know this how?"

"I just do." Faith spoke with a smile in his deep voice. "These things will work out as they are meant to. I have walked a long road with you, fledgling, and I have seen your dreams. I cannot believe that your paths will not cross again, not after what you have shown me."

"Do you think when I wake up he will be there?" Marcelle leaned forward on the edge of her stool, wrapping her arms around her midsection as a chill ran through her body. "And if he is, do you think he will be extending his hand or his sword to me?"

"I do not know if you are mocking me or are being sincere."

"I do not know either." Marcelle's teeth were chattering now, and a cold gust of icy wind rattled the walls of the house and blew down the chimney to snuff out the fire. "The Dreaming is ending, Faith."

"It worries me when they hurt you, fledgling," Faith's pauldrons drooped. "I cannot feel or find you in the darkness." He was referring, of course, to a Templar's ability to smite a mage and disrupt their connection to the Fade.

"It is only a temporary thing," Marcelle replied gently. "And if the effects wear off while I am asleep, they cannot keep me from the Fade." Asleep, Marcelle knew, was not the correct term. Unconscious was – knocked unconscious was even more appropriate – but she did not want to anger Faith or upset him anymore than she had to. The spirit had expressed his distress at being parted from her for those months in which she'd taken the draught of dreamless sleep, scolding her for being not only reckless, but also insincere and dishonest. She had _left _him alone without telling him _why, _and it was only then Marcelle had realized that Faith needed her as much as she needed him and that she had been exceptionally cruel to abandon him. To that very day, she was still apologizing. "They cannot keep me from you."

"And they cannot keep me from you." Faith pointed a finger to one of the wooden walls, "out there, they dream just as any other mortal."

Marcelle eyed the wall he pointed at, noticing how the wood was beginning to split and warp under the weight of consciousness. "You would enter their dreams?" The cracking began to spread along the other walls of the house, and the roof began to shake above them.

Faith scoffed. "No. Such things do not interest me. But I would follow the paths of their dreams. They are poor substitutes for the beat of your heart, but they are guidance enough."

Reflexively, Marcelle covered her heart with her hand. It was curiously intimate that Faith followed her movements beyond the Veil by listening to the beat of her heart through her innate connection to the Fade. "What if the Templar whose dreams you follow parts ways from me?"

"I will still find you," Faith replied simply. "They cannot sever your connection to the Fade completely. Whatever magic they use against you will eventually wear off."

"Well," Marcelle lowered her eyes to her lap, "let us hope that is true." The subject of Tranquility was not something that she and Faith had spoken of. And as the dream was crumbling around them, talk of it now was not entirely appropriate. The cold, stale wind of the Fade began to seep through the cracks in the house and the roof, and already its harsh, blue light was pushing its way into the house like an intruder. "What will you do," she asked, "while I am gone?"

"I will hunt. And I will track."

"Are you sure you're not a Spirit of Tenacity? Persistence?" she teased.

"No. You would find me impatient, were I such."

"Mm." Marcelle hummed. "Faith, I would - " she blinked as something cold and wet dripped onto her forehead. "What is…" she touched her fingers to her face, but found nothing. "Curious." She felt more splattering across her face. "I…think it is raining where I am, Faith. This will be," she sighed, "a miserable march."

"Be strong, fledgling." Faith placed his large gauntlet over her smaller hand, "and know that I will follow in your footsteps."

"I will be the stronger for the knowledge," Marcelle flashed him a smile, "thank you, my dear friend."

Faith stood and extended his hand to Marcelle, and when she took it, he led her to one of the shattering walls of her family's shack. The light between the cracks was glowing pink as the Veil began to claw and tear at the Fade as the dream weakened. "I will be waiting for you when you return."

"I'll be back when I can." Marcelle squeezed Faith's hand quickly before she pulled away from him and placed her hands on the fragments of the wooden wall. The pieces of the dream began to shift and part at her touch. Marcelle had to close her eyes against the glare of the light on the other side. "Goodbye, Faith," she called before stepping through the gap.

"Wake well, fledgling," Faith replied, finding himself in silence and gloom. He was left alone on a vista of warped trees and grey sand, the specter of the Black City floating in the distance. The Hawke Family's home and all its inhabitants were gone. It was as though it had never even existed.

8-8-8

Marcelle awoke to raindrops on her face. Her eyes fluttered open slowly to reveal that the sky above her was grey and dim with early morning sunlight. Logic dictated that there should be a _roof _over her head, or even a tent – and it was this absence of cover that caused her muscles to tense and her eyes to close again as she remembered what had befallen her. She had been captured by the Templar Order outside her home in Lothering, and they had marched west along the road. There had been a…misunderstanding…along the way, which had resulted in her being knocked out cold. If they were still traveling west, Marcelle hadn't the faintest idea, and she dared not risk moving, fearing that the slightest rustle of her robes, the slightest change in her breathing would bring the attention and the wrath of the Templars down upon her. The last thing she wanted was to lose another unspecified amount of time at their hands.

She rested on the ground and listened to the sounds of the camp around her. She heard snoring and snorting, deep breathing and soft, hissing wheezes. The men and women around her were asleep. She let her gaze fall sideways, hiding her eyes under the thick veil of her eyelashes. Around her, the Templars were resting on their bedrolls in their makeshift camp, sleeping as their breathing had suggested. They were resting peacefully in the Fade – the place from where Marcelle had just come.

Ser Karras was on watch, seated at the campfire facing her. His face was red from the chilly morning wind, and his bushy hair hung limp from lack of washing. He was poking at the fire with a long stick, his quick eyes darting between the flames and her prone form. If he knew she was awake, he made no move to acknowledge it.

She lay still for a few minutes more, willing herself to be calm and, if she could, return to sleep. But Marcelle's body was uncooperative. There was a rock digging into her back, and her head was throbbing from where she had been struck. Her scalp felt crusty and sticky from where she had bled. She longed for a hot bath, more than she longed for food or a comfortable bed. Her clothes were soiled, her fingernails were dirty, and her hair was a bird's nest of sand and blood.

Slowly, so as not to startle the Templars around her, she opened her eyes. She slipped her hands from their position at her stomach to her face, wincing at the way the thick rope rubbed against the raw skin of her wrists. She did not risk a healing cantrip to soothe their pain, and so she pursed her lips against the friction. Marcelle pushed the sleep from her eyes and rubbed at her cold cheeks and nose to warm them.

Ser Karras was now fully aware of her, and he moved from his position at the campfire towards her. His heavy feet crunched menacingly in the dirt and gravel as he stalked to her side, and the toe of his boot kicked up a spray of the grit onto her stomach as he knelt down next to her. Marcelle lowered her hands back to her stomach and stared up at him with serene blue eyes She watched as he extended his gauntlet towards her face, refusing to wince or start in surprise as he grasped her chin roughly between a thumb and forefinger to tilt her face away from him.

"Do you know where we're taking you?" he asked.

"No," Marcelle replied honestly. She didn't have the faintest idea where she was being taken. She could guess, however. "But I would assume it is to the Circle Tower?"

"And how do you figure that?"

"We marched west," Marcelle explained. "The only things of note in this direction beyond Orzammar and the road to Orlais are Kinloch Hold and Redcliffe. I assume we go to Kinloch Hold because you are a Templar and I am a mage, neither of which is associated with Redcliffe."

Ser Karras grunted. "You'll be going back to the Circle…where you belong." His fingers tightened on her chin. "Though this Circle wouldn't have been my first choice."

"I imagine," Marcelle said quietly, "that you must be quite uncomfortable with the ideas behind the Fereldan Circle."

"Are you mocking me, mage?"

"No," Marcelle would have tried shaking her head, if she could. "The Fereldan Circle is merely founded on different principles than the Kirkwall Circle, though that wasn't always as such. King Alistair was very gracious to the mages."

"King Alistair is a fool," Ser Karras replied bitterly, "and has opened himself to the possibility of blood magic in his court…if he was not already influenced by it."

"I know little of Fereldan politics, serrah," Marcelle kept her gaze straight ahead to the copse of trees that Ser Karras pointed her face to, "at least where mages are concerned."

"Oh, _don't you_, Viscountess Hawke?" Ser Karras laughed darkly. "Would you be pleased to know that the surviving nobility of Kirkwall have refused the Knight Commander's orders for a vote?"

"I am only saddened that there is strife in my beloved city."

"_Such _a politician," the Templar sneered. "I'll enjoy seeing you take your Harrowing, and I'll enjoy watching you walk the halls of the Circle Tower as an outsider amongst your own kind."

"Templars are not allowed in Kinloch Hold," Marcelle murmured, looking at Ser Karras out of the corner of her eye. "You shall do no watching, serrah."

"There's an entire garrison at Kinloch Hold." Ser Karras raised his bushy eyebrows. "And there has been for months. They _opened _their doors to us. Why, I might even go as far to say that they _missed _us."

Marcelle said nothing and instead just stared at the trees and the grey sky that was beginning to turn blue above them.

"Yes, Marcelle Hawke," Ser Karras pinched her chin; "you'll join the Circle and take your Harrowing. And if you try to run again, we'll kill you."

"Again?" Marcelle gently wiggled her chin from out of the Templar's grip and sat up on her elbows, tired of craning her neck. Stones and gravel pressed painfully into the skin of her elbows, biting through the thin material of her dress. "I do not understand. I have never run from the Templars before…" A cold feeling of dread began to spread through her body, spurred on by the realization that something she had hoped to be true was likely false. The scar on her hand ached.

"You escaped the Kirkwall Circle once, but you will not escape the Fereldan Circle."

She frowned and shook her head. "I was not a part of the Kirkwall Circle; therefore I could never have escaped it."

Ser Karras seemed amused at her protestations. "Really now? First Enchanter Orsino claimed otherwise."

"First Enchanter Orsino was a madman and a _blood mage,_" she replied in a voice of silk and steel, her skin prickling with gooseflesh. "What _proof_ could he possibly have that could make you believe such a story?"

"The First Enchanter may have shown his true colors before his death, but his proof is undeniable. He had your phylactery."

"I…do not have a phylactery." Marcelle clenched her jaw. "I think I would remember such a thing."

"Oh yes," Ser Karras smirked, "you do have a phylactery." His hand darted out and grabbed at the wrist that was closest to him. Marcelle was pulled to one side as the Templar dragged her hand up, raising the palm to the light. The long scar from a sharp blade was still visible on her palm, the wound having been resistant to healing magic and forced to heal to a thick, white scar. "There's your proof. And how fitting it is," he taunted, "that the Champion of Kirkwall, the mage who sent other mages back to the Circle, finally gets to join them."

"But that's not…that's not possible." She pulled her hand from his grip and clutched it to her chest.

"Of course it's possible," Ser Karras put a hand on Marcelle's shoulder and pushed her back onto the ground. He leaned over her, "I was there when the First Enchanter made Circle mages of you and those blood mages that Ser Terrance brought in. I saw him make the cut on your hand and then watched as he let the blood drip into the vial. I heard him cast whatever spell he's supposed to cast to link you and the blood together. I saw him do it to all of you apostates that day. Are you calling me a liar?"

"Yes." Marcelle flashed narrowed blue eyes to his face. In truth, Marcelle believed him, but she was hoping that she could force his hand so that he could reveal the location of her phylactery. She was of a mind to break it, if _only _to spite Orsino and his meddlesome plans.

"How do you think," Ser Karras said slowly, "we found you so quickly?"

"I thought Lothering would have been obvious choice to look."

"Your father hid in Lothering for a long time and avoided capture. You might have done the same. Are you telling me that you weren't careful? That you would have been easily found?"

"No," Marcelle admitted, "you would not have found me easily."

"Beyond the scar and your capture, what more proof could you possibly need? You don't think I'm going to just flash the phylactery in front of you, do you?"

"It would be the ultimate proof."

"I could fill a vial with rabbit's blood and claim it was yours too. Would you believe that?" His expression was one of smug and triumph. "Proof of your phylactery or not, you are now part of the Circle of the Magi, and you are under the watchful eyes of the Templar Order and the Maker Himself. Tell me," he stroked at one of his thick sideburns, "does the idea of life in the Circle still appeal to you now?"

Marcelle said nothing to that and instead bit the insides of her cheeks to quell the flood of irritation she felt. She was shocked and appalled by the things she had just learned. She and Orsino may not have seen eye to eye on every issue, yet she had at least considered the First Enchanter a friend up until her last few days in Kirkwall. They had shared many conversations and stories over the years, and it was only during the battle in the Gallows, when Orsino had turned into a monstrous abomination of flesh and undeath that Marcelle had changed her mind about him. Pieces of a puzzle she had tried to solve years earlier began to fall into place, and cryptic notes and borrowed books in the lair of a murder all made sense. Orsino had never been her friend. In some ways – in a lot of ways – he had betrayed her.

It made her numb to consider that _Orsino_ had cast the enchantment. She felt like a fool. She had been worried of Meredith's intentions, fearing that the now-deceased Knight Commander of Kirkwall's Templars would tip the balance of power in Kirkwall by having her became a mage of the Circle. Yet, she needn't have worried about Meredith at all, because it was her "good friend" the First Enchanter who had tipped the balance of power instead. She could not understand why though.

She wondered bitterly what his plan had been, and what part she would have played in it if she hadn't escaped that night. Had he been trying to create a power vacuum to tempt and ensnare Meredith by removing her…Hawke…as Viscountess, thus showing to Kirkwall that Meredith loved nothing more than power? Had he thought that she could somehow better serve the plight of the Circle's mages as one of them? Did Orsino think that she would be a calming force on the Templars, and that if she dwelled within the Gallows that they would be on their best behavior? Did Orsino know of Anders and Justice, and if so, did he hope to provoke one and the other to action if he bound her to the Gallows? There were…so many different things Orsino could have planned, and yet there were no answers to her questions, for Orsino was dead. Whatever it was he had tried to do had failed, though that thought brought her little comfort now.

Meredith couldn't have put Orsino up to the task, because if she had, Orsino would have resisted. If Meredith claimed the sky was blue, Orsino would call it grey, and if Orsino called the grass green, Meredith would say there was no grass. The two had always been at odds, countering and feinting with one another for as long as they had been in power. If Orsino had acted, he had acted on his own, which meant Orsino had possessed an agenda, and he had planned to use her to further it - just like he had let Quentin _use her mother for his research. _It was almost too much for her to bear, and she hoped that the gasp of air she took in sounded less like a sob in Ser Karras's ears than it did in her own.

"If you can't face up to the reality," Ser Karras sent her one last smirk before standing, "we can always make you Tranquil. Then you won't feel a thing."

* * *

><p><em>We return to Vigil's Keep in Chapter 12, and see how Sebastian and the Grey Wardens are fairing. Time is running out for our dear Lady Hawke! Let us hope Sebastian gets a lead where to look for her. <em>

_Thank you all for reading! Also, I'm sorry if you've reviewed and I haven't responded. The site has been a bit broken lately when it comes to responding to reviews, though I'm doing my best!_


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Breakfast with the Grey Wardens was exactly like dinner, and further convinced Sebastian that Aurora Cousland had forbidden them to speak of any topic that was relevant to his interests. And since the Grey Wardens only had an idea of what his interests were, they had resorted to silence as their best means of protection from her wrath. Or she had just forbidden them to speak entirely, which was indeed quite possible by the sullen looks the Grey Wardens gave their breakfasts. Sebastian was again amazed at the contrast between these Wardens and the ones he'd encountered in Kirkwall. There were no raucous jokes or lewd behaviors – only silence, and the occasional snarky comment of the bald and tattooed dwarf to the vulgar, red-bearded dwarf. And even these went unnoticed and uncommented upon. When the dwarves said something, only eyes were lifted – not mouth corners.

Sebastian's only conversation at breakfast was the Warden Commander, and was as charming and gregarious as she had been the night before, though she had lost some of her subtlety and womanly wiles. The Warden Commander was dressed in light leather armor and was seated at the head of the table, and Sebastian had been afforded the position at her left since he was the guest of honor. To the Warden Commander's right sat the woman she called her Second. Cauthrien, if Sebastian remembered correctly, and beside Cauthrien sat a sour looking man with long black hair and an equally long nose that Sebastian had missed at dinner the night before. He was Nathaniel Howe, and upon the formal introduction that morning, Sebastian was informed that Nathaniel was an archer of great skill. Looking at his hands, Sebastian could see calluses from years of wielding a bow.

"Perhaps you two should have a friendly competition in the courtyard?" the Warden Commander suggested with a wide smile, but while Sebastian had been happy to accept the challenge, Nathaniel had demurred and shook his head.

The other Grey Wardens at the table were Sigrun and Oghren, the aforementioned dwarves, as well as Carver Hawke. There was apparently another Grey Warden who was out along the coast, but Sebastian didn't catch the man's name.

"There are so few of you," Sebastian said. "I expected more."

"How many Grey Wardens were you expecting?" the Warden Commander laughed. "Twenty? Fifty?"

"At least one hundred," Sebastian admitted.

"My, but you should visit Weisshaupt!"

"That is quite far from Starkhaven."

"And from Amaranthine," agreed the Warden Commander. "But if you are looking for a Grey Warden army, that is where I would go."

"Why not have an army where the seat of Grey Warden power lies?" And to this, Sebastian cast his eyes to the huge throne at the far end of the hall. "To protect you?"

Sigrun snickered at the comment, _oofing _loudly when something collided with her ribs.

"I prefer quality," the Warden Commander smiled, "over quantity. Though as you have no doubt seen, we've been expanding the Vigil to accommodate more Grey Wardens. I do not intend to fill all those rooms, but I will likely make a call to Orlais, Nevarra, and the Anderfels for additional Wardens and Warden recruits."

"Not the Free Marches?"

"Our stronghold in Tantervale has unfortunately been abandoned for quite some time. The previous First relocated the Wardens there to Nevarra. From the reports I've received, the fortress has apparently been reincorporated back into the hands of the nobility." The Warden Commander sighed. "If we return to the Free Marches, I shall have to build us a new home if no one is generous."

Sebastian understood what she meant, but chose not to reply.

Silence followed in the wake of the conversation, and it was only broken when, as they were in the middle of a course of porridge (because breakfast was apparently a three course affair to the Grey Wardens of Amaranthine, porridge being the second course after a platter of season fruit), Seneschal Varel came striding through one of the great hall's side doors. His proud and careworn face was an unreadable mask as he walked straight to the Warden Commander, who turned to him in a mixture of surprise and what Sebastian assumed was concern.

"Varel," she greeted graciously, voice rich and low from the thick coating of honey she'd slipped into her porridge, "have you come to join us, this morning?" She gave him a bright smile.

Varel shook his head. "No, Commander. I bring word from Arl Teagan of Redcliffe."

"Teagan?" She stretched out her hand, clearly expecting the letter that the Seneschal promptly provided her with. "I thought I heard hooves this morning. Was there only one courier?"

"Just the one from Redcliffe." Varel took a step back and folded his hands behind his back. "He said it was urgent that you read it."

Slender fingers plucked apart the wax seal that held the note shut. The Warden Commander's grey eye skimmed over the words. Her face remained impassive as she read, though she did pass the note back to Varel with a heavy sigh. "What was the point," she said crossly, "in ridding ourselves of Kinloch Hold if we still have to fight their battles for them?"

"Taxes," Cauthrien said quickly.

"Ugh," the Warden Commander slumped in her chair and covered her eye with her hand. "You are right. The mages did not want to pay taxes. They forfeited their right to the Crown's protection, and are making us pay for the damages anyway. We were supposed to be free of association, and thus go unharmed and unmolested." The hand not covering her eye curled into a fist. "And if we _were _molested, we had full right to take action on our own behalf without our motivation being tainted."

Sebastian saw the Grey Wardens share a concerned look with one another.

"Has something happened in the lands around Lake Calenhad?" Cauthrien asked, curious.

The Warden Commander lowered her hand and looked to her Second. "Teagan says that his Arling is being held hostage by the Templars. He claims they're using it as their base of operations between the Circle Tower and their work in the Korcari Wilds. They've eaten him out of his granary, and have slowly been eating their way into Bann Telmen's territory. Furthermore," and this made her face sour and the scars on her features deepen, "he has apparently been made a 'guest' of the acting Knight-Lieutenant."

"Would King Alistair," Nathaniel asked softly, "allow his uncle to be put into such a position?"

"I'm more surprised that the Knight-Lieutenant let such a letter go," Cauthrien interrupted. "Cipher?"

The Warden Commander nodded. "Anecdote."

Cauthrien nodded appreciatively. "He's clever."

"And handsome," added Sigrun.

"And no," the Warden Commander turned her gaze to Nathaniel, "he would not. At least, I would hope he would not." Her voice dipped low. "He knows how disappointed the Bannorn would be if the opposite were true."

Sebastian suddenly felt very bad for King Alistair.

"Teagan's Arl of Redcliffe, isn't he?" Carver asked from the end of the table. His tone was that of someone who was left out of a conversation for too long, and had just then come up with an interesting addition that would make them a treasured part of the group: hopeful, earnest, and just the slightest bit smug. "Why, that's not far from Lothering at all. Do you think…that…" Carver stopped himself, his blue eyes widening at his Commander's reaction.

The Warden Commander slowly tilted her head from one to side another, mirroring the movements of an owl as she observed Carver with raised eyebrows and an expression of amusement. Carver, in turn, stared back at her as a deer that had caught the scent of a hunter. Sebastian saw the silent exchange between them, and if he had not guessed that Carver had let slip a valuable piece of information from their faces, then he definitely would have guessed it from the way Carver threw his spoon down onto the table sullenly.

"Maker damn it," Carver cursed.

"She's in Lothering," asked Sebastian mildly, turning the bright blue of his eyes onto the Warden Commander, "isn't she?"

The Warden Commander said nothing. She merely stared at Carver who was staring at Sebastian with a baleful stare. Marcelle had told neither Carver nor the Warden Commander where she was headed, but the Warden Commander recognized the look the Viscountess's face. Nostalgia – longing – hope – home – had been written all over it. Given the choice, the Warden Commander would also have returned to Lothering, and when she had confirmed her suspicions with Carver, she had not been surprised to see that he had come to the same conclusion.

"No answer?" Sebastian prompted, tilting his head at the Warden Commander and urging her to speak. Seeing only a small half-smile on her face, Sebastian gave a polite cough and dabbed at his lips with the edge of the grey napkin he had folded in his lap. "I will take your silence as assent."

"Take it for what you like," replied the Warden Commander evenly.

Sebastian turned to Carver, unflinching below the younger man's angry stare. "Tell me truthfully: is she in Lothering, Carver?"

"Sod off," Carver said angrily. "I'm not telling you anything about my sister."

"So she is in Lothering?" Sebastian nodded. "Very good. Silence as assent. Thank you, Carver."

"Whatever." Carver stared into the dregs of his breakfast, glowering at the mushy oats and dried fruit. "Go get stuck in some mud somewhere," he muttered below his breath, though not quiet enough so that the table didn't hear him.

"You should apologize to Prince Vael," Cauthrien scolded.

"What?" Carver sent her a stare of disbelief. "What do you want me to say? 'I'm sorry you don't like my sister and want to see her dead,' because I can say that." He turned to Sebastian. "Prince Vael, accept this poor Grey Warden's humblest apologies that you don't like his sister and want to see her dead.'" Carver snapped at Sebastian, his lips curled back in disgust. "Are you happy now, Cauthrien?"

"You are," the Second Warden of Ferelden said with a great sigh, "so childish sometimes."

"At least I'm not contributing to the murder of an innocent woman." His blue eyes narrowed. "A woman who _is my sister _might I add_." _

Sebastian watched the exchange with grim amusement. Unfortunately for Carver, he _had _contributed to Sebastian's search a great deal. Sebastian had thought that Marcelle might flee into the wilderness or a large city to hide. He had not expected her to return to Lothering, not after she had said for so long that there was no reason for her to go back. Her only reason for coming to Ferelden was for her brother, and that had been the only sure thing that Sebastian knew. But now he had a lead, and he intended to use it.

"Finish your food, Prince Vael," the Warden Commander said, placing her leather clad hand over his. "An hour will not harm you."

"No." Sebastian slipped his hand away from hers. "You have been a gracious host, Lady Cousland, and I could have asked for no better hospitality," he said, "but I can tarry in Amaranthine no longer." Placing his napkin on the table's edge, he pushed his chair away from the table, the hall echoing with the scrape of wood against wood. But was stopped when the Warden Commander caught his hand again, this time her grip firmer. As he stood she did too, and she leaned over the table to whisper in his ear.

"Remember what we spoke of last night," she warned. "Listen before you judge. Even the Maker does that much." She gave his hand a squeeze before releasing him, and stood at the edge of the table as he walked away straight of back and grim of face.

With his footsteps echoing loudly all around him, Sebastian's mind was on three things: his quiver, his bow, and a horse.

* * *

><p><em>And what an eventful journey it shall be. Next chapter we'll return to Marcelle, and we'll learn a bit more about the 'why' behind her capture. The Templar Order's interest runs deeper than just hunting down a rogue mage!<em>

_And as for the political situation about the Circle Tower, here's the situation as it stands in _Trovommi Amor_ and _Worth's_ Ferelden (and as a note, the following events are a result of decisions made in both of these stories, they're not actual game canon or lore, so you will have to forgive the imperfections. Imperfect solutions for imperfect people.):_

_Alistair freed the Circle mages shortly after he became king (he had his coronation while the Warden Commander was still unconscious after the Battle of Denerim). Freeing the mages is not as simple as it looks. Which authority takes precedence: Chantry or Fereldan? If its Chantry law and regulations that govern the Circle, then Alistair can't just "free" the mages because he has no governance over them - only the Divine can free the Circle of Magi. However, if Fereldan law takes precedence, then Alistair can do what he likes. We know from David Gaider that the Chantry says "no" to the free the mages request - and we've stayed true to that. _

_Now, even though the Chantry told him 'no,' Alistair was not about to give the fight up. Alistair felt particularly strongly about the plight of mages, especially because he was a part of the Warden's team during "the Broken Circle" quest. Couple his experiences with the crown going to his head, as well as Alistair's insecurities about being a king, and it is a recipe for disaster. __It was an obsession that he wouldn't let go of, clinging to it because not only was it a fight he was familiar with, but it also kept his attention from other matters of state. __By that time (a little while after Cullen's death in_ Trovommi Amor_), Greagoir, Wynne, and Irving had already struck an accord for new Templar-Mage interactions, all three firmly believing that how things were in the present would not be sustainable in the long run. The Bannorn (namely Anora and Eamon - Anora for political security, Eamon for finances), seeing Alistair's growing interest in what could eventually be a very trying, tenuous situation, (Alistair proposed Kinloch Hold become part of the Bannorn - to which the Landsmeet loudly proclaimed "no!") convince him that relinquishing the middle of Lake Calenhad would not only "give the mages sovereignty" but would also solve taxing issues and political issues._

_Tax issues arise because if Alistair and the Landsmeet consider the mages of Kinloch Hold as free citizens of Ferelden then they have to pay taxes. Unfortunately, the mages had no interest in paying taxes, they only wanted to be free (and I've made the assumption at the Chantry itself is a tax-exempt organization in nations across Thedas and thus either way Ferelden is not getting money from the templars, the chantry, or the mages). And even if they could pay taxes, the mages were still under the control of the Chantry, and that would be like taxing the Chantry. They would be paying their money two ways - to Ferelden and to the Chantry, and the mages would not have enough to provide for themselves without becoming grossly indebted to one or the other._

_And political issues arise because, as Meredith puts it, Alistair could stir up trouble far beyond his kingdom. It isn't Ferelden's business to regulate something that isn't their's to regulate, but it is Ferelden's business to do what it likes to its own land. Thus, the Landsmeet voted to consider the center of Lake Calenhad as a sort of no-man's land. None of the neighboring banns or arls would be held responsible for what occurred there - and Anora managed to write a Treaty that the Divine agreed to which specified the same thing. Far from the long arm of the Chantry, with Wynne, Irving, and Greagoir's guidance, and now residing on a parcel of land they could almost call their own, the mages were as "free" as they were going to get. And they would still get some measure of protection too - as even if the mages were under threat, intruders would have to go through Ferelden to get to them, and if they caused trouble, they could be dealt with by the Crown. Alistair was appeased and satisfied, but everyone else felt they'd jumped through hoops to do things that would change nothing. After all, Ferelden didn't have much to do with the middle of Lake Calenhad and Kinloch Hold anyway. It was a lake, it didn't make them any money, and the Chantry handled the mages. As far as the Landsmeet was concerned, it still did. _

_tl;dr: Alistair is a bored king and wants to free the mages. Chantry says no. Alistair persists. The nobles jump through hoops to get Alistair to give it up. Ultimately, Ferelden "gives up" the center of Lake Calenhad to avoid messy tax laws and political problems in the long term. No one cares about the middle of the lake, and the Chantry owns Kinloch Hold anyway. The status quo remains. _

__Thank you all for reading and reviewing!_  
><em>


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13 **

Marcelle had not expected to be taken to Redcliffe, and so was surprised when she saw the characteristic red cliffs of the hillside and the sprawling city just below them come into view. It was a somber march into the city – somber for her, at least. Around her, the Templars were bursting with nervous energy so tangible that it made Marcelle's teeth tingle and her jaw chatter. Her footsteps were slow and even on the road leading through the city, quiet in comparison to the loud stomping of heavy leather and metal on the gravel and dirt.

What a proud sight their procession must have been: the contingent of Templars bringing home a wayward apostate. If Marcelle dared to raise her eyes (which she did not, since only a few hours earlier she had been shoved face first into the dirt by a fearful young woman who was under the misconception that a mage could possess you by looking at you), she imagined she might have seen the citizens of Redcliffe pouring out of their homes to witness the spectacle. But the streets were silent around her, save for their footsteps, and so if anyone was witnessing her being paraded down Redcliffe Square with her hands bound and her head bowed she did not know it.

At the end of the square was a fountain, and just beyond the fountain was the Chantry. Marcelle didn't have to lift her eyes to know what lay before her – she had been to Redcliffe before with her father, though when they neared enough that she didn't have to lift her eyes to look around, Marcelle found herself unable to recognize the Chantry they stood before and the Chantry she had passed by all those years ago. The two buildings were distinctly different. Now, one would expect a child's memories to be over-exaggerated, to have buildings and landscapes that were impossibly large and majestic, for things larger than children and above their eye level tend to be so. And so it was with Marcelle's memory. The Chantry of the past had been a large, wooden structure with an impressive roof and carved columns that had fascinated her. But if that Chantry had been large, _this _Chantry was enormous. Gone was the wood, gone were the columns, and gone was the atmosphere of welcome. In its place was a building made from impressive stonework and golden inlays, with a stark and austere façade that forbid entrance as much as it forbid joy.

Someone had paid a fortune for this Chantry to be built, though she didn't have much time to appreciate that fact. She was dragged roughly inside it by Ser Karras, stumbling and scraping over the threshold stooped like a supplicant. He took hold of the collar of her robe and thrust her in front of him. She tripped over the edge of the robe, and it was only his vice like grip that kept her from falling face forward onto the thick carpet. She flung her hands out before her for balance and bent her knees, anticipating the rough shove the Templar behind her gave her. She did not fall when he pushed; instead she surged forward into the Chantry proper.

Around her was a bustling of Chantry activity. Sisters and Brothers of the Faith were milling around bookshelves and pews trying to look as innocent as possible as angry looking men and women in armor emblazoned with Andraste's sword prowled the nave and the sanctuary. The air smelt like incense and secrets. It was sweet on the tongue when inhaled, but bitter going down her throat, and Marcelle's eyes began to water and her mouth dry the longer she breathed it. She put her hands to her mouth to cover her cough and received fearful stares from the worshippers. Coughing, she closed her eyes and turned her face away from them. She did not want to know whether they feared her, or feared for her.

For her own sake she hoped it was the former, though she guessed from the storm cloud of activity at the Chantry's center that the latter was most likely true, for there on the sanctuary was a stern looking man with long black hair and a scarred face that did not belie a lifetime of violence. Marcelle was pressed forward towards him and something inside her insistently resisted it. The closer she got, the more she wanted to run. Fear dug his hooks into her skin and pulled her apart, and Marcelle's hands began to shake. She was tired, hungry, and alone, and could not bring herself to feel ashamed for her feelings.

"Knight-Guardian," said Ser Karras from behind her. "I have brought the mage you asked for."

Marcelle was acquainted with the ranks of the Templars, having listened to Carver drone on about them during their first year in Kirkwall together. Carver had threatened to join the Templars. He had meant to scare his sister, but all he had managed to do was make their Mother cry. Marcelle had told him that if he wanted to join the Templars, then he should do it for the right reasons. Anything less meant that he dishonored not only father's memory, but also the memory of the man Carver was named for. Whether Carver would have joined the Templars was not something Marcelle would ever know. Fate had claimed that Carver was to be a Grey Warden, and for that, Marcelle had been grateful.

Turning her thoughts back to the matter at hand, Marcelle recalled the rank and role of the Knight-Guardian. The Knight-Guardian was a rank below the Knight-Vigilant, and was the Knight-Vigilant's proxy when the Knight-Vigilant was otherwise unavailable. The Knight-Guardian was usually stationed in Orlais, and seeing the Knight-Guardian in Ferelden was…unsettling. He would not be in Ferelden unless he was on important business. And from the look he gave Marcelle, it was clear that she was part of his important business. It was a mercy at least for Marcelle to know that the Knight-Guardian did not eye her sexually. He observed her less with a care for her beauty and assets, and more for the condition she had been brought to him in. He appraised her like a knight appraises a horse, looking for damage and assessing its capabilities. There was nothing carnal or lusty in the cold, clinical stare he used upon her.

It took the Knight-Guardian several minutes to acknowledge Ser Karras, but when he did, it was with a curt nod and a deep voice. "You do excellent work as always, Ser Karras," the Knight-Guardian said from his perch atop the Sanctuary. "I will commend you myself to the Knight-Vigilant."

Ser Karras hummed with pleasure at the words, but he said nothing. He merely sketched a deep bow, his armor rattling and creaking at the sudden move, and murmured a very quiet, "Ser." He shoved Marcelle forward, pressing into her lower back with his fist before he slunk away.

"Well," the Knight-Guardian said after some length, cocking his head this way and then to see Marcelle from all angles. "You are the Champion of Kirkwall."

Marcelle stood alone amidst the pews, positioned in the center of the massive tapestry rug that had been laid on the floor that depicted a battle against the Tevinter Imperium. With her eyes lowered, Marcelle saw hundreds of Templars in miniature driving their blades through the hearts of Tevinter Magisters. It was a grim sight, and while the Tevinter Imperium had deserved what it had gotten and then some, it brought Marcelle no comfort. Every mage, whether they were within the Circle or out, were measured against the mages of the Tevinter Imperium. As a student in the Circle, you did not master spells as naturally as apprentices to the Tevinter Magisters were rumored to. Or you longed for the freedom that they had in the gold and ivory towers of the Imperium. Out of the Circle, you were a master of blood magic, just as the Tevinter Magisters were. Or you desired the safety of the Imperium for those who thought you evil and unnatural. Tevinter and its mages had an influence everywhere, and their long, sticky fingers cast honeyed black shadows on every nook and cranny of a mage's life.

"You are the Champion of Kirkwall," he said again. "Marcelle Hawke."

The sound of his voice resonated deep through Marcelle's body, echoing in the hollow of her chest like a drumbeat. Ser Karras had said he was planning to bring her to the Circle Tower, yet this was not the Circle, and this man was not the Knight Commander of the Circle Tower. Whatever he wanted from her would not be pleasant, and it would not come without pain. Marcelle was no stranger to hardship and pain, and she was familiar with fear and loss, but she was still mortal, and her body could not help but tremble under the black gaze of the Knight-Guardian. She brought her hands up to her face and clasped them together to stop them and her jaw from shaking. The Knight Guardian laughed at her, thinking she had done so to pray.

Marcelle managed to still her muscles enough to nod, noticing with alarm that the chattering of the Brothers and Sisters in the space behind her had stopped, and that the air had become filled with the distinct sound of retreating footfalls. They were leaving, or they were being forced out. Either way, it only predicted ill fortune for the Champion and Viscountess of Kirkwall. But Marcelle held her ground, and stared at the Knight-Guardian from over the tips of her dirt-covered fingers.

The Knight-Guardian made his way to the set of stairs that descended down from the sanctuary. He let his thick, silver gauntlet trail down the length of the banister, the sound of metal and wood a gentle hiss in the otherwise silent room. As he walked towards her, the Templars began to file themselves in neat lines around the walls. They formed a box around the Knight-Guardian and the Champion of Kirkwall, creating a barrier of glistening silver armor and blood red sashes. Some had their hands resting on the hilts of their swords, while others twitched their fingers in nervous anticipation.

"Knight-Commander Meredith wrote to me," he said in his deep voice, crossing his arms over his chest, "and said you were a very gifted mage."

Marcelle did not respond, and kept her silence as the Knight-Guardian swept his gaze up, around, and over her again. She could see that his eyes were a pale green, almost yellow in color, and they were bright and beautiful with their stunning clarity. Even though his features were scarred, they were lean and chiseled, and at one point this man had been handsome.

"Ah, you are humble." The Knight-Guardian nodded appreciatively. "That is good. So, you employ the arts of creation then, do you not?"

"I am a _healer,"_ Marcelle corrected in a quiet voice that sounded far more confident than she felt. She dared not break eye contact with the Knight-Guardian, as it felt as though he was the only thing tethering her heart inside her chest. "If that is what you ask, Messere?"

"Yes. But," the Knight-Guardian gave her a shrewd look, narrowing his eyes and quirking his lips into a grim smile, "that is not all you are. You are not just a simple healer, are you, Marcelle Hawke? You are not merely some mage who peddle spells for coin to heal the sick and wounded, surely? No," he shook his head, "there's more to you. Isn't there?"

Marcelle tilted her head to one side, confused by his question. "I do not understand."

"When the First Enchanter abandoned his post and resorted to blood magic, all of his personal records fell to me." The Knight-Guardian flicked some dirt away from Marcelle's shoulder. "Correspondence, journals, notes about mages residing at the Tower, it all landed on my desk, and it was my duty to read through every single page and figure out _what went wrong._"

Silence was the only weapon Marcelle could wield against the Knight-Guardian, who stood nearly half a foot taller and wider than she, and such a thing came naturally to one who chose not to deal in riddles and lies.

"The First Enchanter was very impressed with you," the Knight-Guardian said slowly, "and the command of your abilities. I imagine that he would be, given that a mage like you is such a rarity. Circles across Thedas cannot boast to have many with talents such as yours. In fact," he stroked at his chin, "I believe I read a report some years ago that detailed the escape of someone who shared in your gifts from the Fereldan Circle of Magi."

He was referring to Anders, of course. Anders had boasted that there probably was not a Templar alive who didn't know that he'd escaped the Circle eight times and lived – six of those times he'd been dragged back and locked away, considered too valuable for his talents, while on the seventh he had managed to find his way into the Grey Wardens. A thought occurred to Marcelle that he had actually escaped eight times, having fled from the Grey Wardens. And then another thought occurred to her: he had escaped at Kirkwall too, fleeing the wrath of the Templars and Sebastian. That would make nine escapes, which was fitting, since the cats that Anders loved so much also had nine lives.

As Marcelle pondered the predicament of Anders, the Knight-Guardian had circled around her, his eyes never leaving her head. "While all mages are dangerous when to left to their own devices, those who are…more sensitive, shall we say…to the Fade are the most lethal. It is around these individuals that the barrier between worlds is thinnest, for they walk with one foot in the Fade and one in the mortal realm. They straddle the divide, and are the best conduits for spirits of malcontent."

"I do not disagree," Marcelle licked at her dry lips.

"Good." The Knight-Guardian flashed her his smile again. "Mages such as you are the first targets of demons, and unfortunately, many are not in a position to control them. Most mages mercifully come to realize their weakness before they become a danger, and so have themselves made Tranquil. It is only those mages who think that they have mastered themselves who are to be watched and feared. They believe that they can control demons, outsmart them, and prevent them entry into their bodies. Yet," the Knight-Guardian stretched out an arm towards the Templars that had surrounded them, "as we have recently seen, it does not take a _demon _to do deeds of terrible evil. Even the most benign creatures of the Fade have the power to destroy those things that we hold dear."

She frowned in disagreement, and felt words of protest bubbling to her lips. But Marcelle bit her tongue to stop herself from saying them, since she could not deny the truth of his words. She had wanted to disagree on principle, but the fact of the matter was that anything that came from the Fade could not survive untouched and untainted in the mortal world. What the Knight-Guardian was saying was absolutely correct: the benign spirits of the Fade, with their single mindedness and inability to comprehend the mortal world, could wreak havoc.

Justice had destroyed the Kirkwall Chantry and turned into a Spirit of Vengeance, the closest thing that the spirit could become to a demon. What could other spirits do? What would a spirit of Valor or Charity turn into? What sort of monster could a spirit like Faith become if he should be exposed to those darker emotions that he had no notion of? In the Fade, Faith could not feel Marcelle's anger, or despair, or jealousy. He may himself know of righteous anger, of the displeasure spurred on by disbelief, but he had never felt raw, consuming rage trickle down his scorched throat or felt the anguish and bitterness at the Maker himself for refusing to save a beloved mother or sister. Faith was shielded from such things, and there was likely a reason for such things.

"Tell me, Marcelle Hawke. Tell me as a woman who has consorted with spirits for as long as she has been a mage," the Knight-Guardian touched her cheek with his gauntlet, "if the threat of our mages being possessed by one of these self-proclaimed 'good' creatures of the Fade is real. What is your opinion on the matter, as one who has never been possessed but has spoken with such creatures?"

"Why do you want my opinion?"

"Because I trusted Knight-Commander Meredith," the Knight Guardian replied coolly, "and you fought with us, not against us, in the hour of our greatest need." He removed his hand from her cheek. "Your word holds more weight than any other mage's across Thedas. So speak, Marcelle Hawke, and tell me of the threats."

Marcelle did not let the flattery go to her head – she felt dreadfully uneasy about the entire situation. While it made sense that she would speak to the Knight-Guardian about his concerns before she was brought to the Circle Tower to start her new life, that part of Marcelle that had kept her alive that first year in Kirkwall and for every subsequent year thereafter - that part of her that walked side streets and climbed rooftops and hid in shadows out of sight rather than take the main road – that part of her told her that something was wrong.

"I am waiting, Marcelle," chided the Knight-Guardian, "for your answer."

Marcelle swallowed the lump in her throat and clutched her hands against her chest. "Those Spirits of the Fade that you and I would identify as benign do not wish to be a part of our realm. So the threat of possession is not great. Justice and Anders were what I would consider a special case. Justice was forced out of the Fade by a powerful demon and was thrust into a corpse. Justice lingered in that state for many months, I was told, before Anders was mortally wounded during a darkspawn siege. It was only then that they merged, Anders to give Justice a better life, and Justice to restore Anders to life. Ultimately, Justice entered Anders in our realm. He did not enter into Anders's body through the Fade."

"I heard the same thing, but that is not my question. I asked you if it was possible for a benign spirit to possess a mage through the Fade."

Marcelle frowned. "Anything is possible," she said carefully, "but the spirit would need a reason to enter us, or rather, we would need to give it a reason to. I do not think that the benign spirits like our world very much, it is only demons that covet and crave what we have."

"So what is the difference then?" The Knight-Guardian gave a massive shrug of his pauldrons. "Both demons and spirits enter a mage because they are either given reason to, or see a reason to. Choice or volition, it doesn't seem to matter."

"But a spirit would leave if asked. Demonic possession is much more…violent." Marcelle had solved several such possessions during her time in Kirkwall, and each time she had been forced to slay the demon in order to free the possessed mage. "Force, or cunning, would be required to drive out the demon. A spirit would simply leave. Possession by the benign spirits would never be to harm or control, but to bolster and strengthen."

"And how do you know this?" the Knight-Guardian asked with some amusement. "Do the spirits tell you that?"

Marcelle could feel the breaths of all the Templars in the room at the back of her neck. "Yes," she gave small nod, and stared grimly at the scared and unflinching face before her. She had never asked Faith what he would do if he was in her body, and what she would have to do to get it back if such a thing occurred. Faith's only interest in the mortal world was her safety, and he had expressed disgust at the idea of traveling beyond his comfortable home in the Fade. He had also said that his ability to augment her would probably end as soon as he left the Fade, and so he'd do her no good by being anywhere else but where he was.

"So you trust them?" the Knight-Guardian asked, closing in so that he was now nose to nose with her. "Despite knowing how dangerous they are? You trust the words of these spirits?"

Marcelle nodded again. Faith had been nothing but honest with her in his dealings. He had asked her for nothing, and had refused everything she had offered in return for his help. He had walked the Fade with her father, and now he walked the Fade with her. They had slain demons together, they had mended dying and sick friends and companions together, and they had shared dreams and private memories together. Faith was as clear as a spring sky – as was Marcelle's conscience. "Yes. I trust his word."

"'His?' His word?" The Knight-Guardian shook his head. "It is as I feared, Marcelle Hawke. I had thought that perhaps you were stronger than your peers, but I see that perhaps I was mistaken. No honest or rational individual could answer such a question as you did after seeing the destruction that was wrought." The Knight-Guardian sighed in disappointment, though the man was a terrible actor and didn't look disappointed in the slightest. He looked grim and resolute, but not disappointed. Disappointed assumed that there had been a chance to disappoint him, yet he had guided Marcelle masterfully through the conversation. He had lead her by her nose through his questions, poking her and prodding her, making her defensive enough to be sympathetic, and sympathetic enough to be defensive. There had been no other alternative solution – even if she'd said that she didn't trust them, there would have been another excuse to sentence her.

Marcelle opened her mouth to protest, and to lay bare the Knight-Guardian's sham before his men, but she was silenced by a sudden burst of anti-magic energy. The blast caught her in the gut, and she sank down to her knees. The Knight-Guardian's fist had barely touched her, but the lyrium infused blow made her feel as though he had ripped a hole in her midsection. Her blood sang out against the lyrium, making her ache and tingle all over. She had barely enough time to throw herself to her right as another blast of stinging anti-magic energy landed where she'd fallen.

The air was thick with the scent of burning lyrium and the rancid incense being burned. Marcelle's eyes watered and she coughed loudly into her bound hands. Her vision swam with images of Templars and upside down statues of Andraste, their faces sad as they looked down upon her. If there was anyone who understood the plight of the mage, it was Andraste when she was at the mercy of the Tevinter Imperium, and of that much Anders had at least been right.

Marcelle did not bother to struggle to her feet or dodge the next blow that came her way. She had no desire to fight the Knight-Guardian and his Templars or to prolong whatever sport they thought they were getting from her. She would not justify their preconceptions about her, nor would she allow them to bully her for a moment longer with their traitorous words, hard fists, and lyrium-enhanced abilities. If they wanted to give her a beating, then she would take it, and she would do it without a cry, complaint, or care.

Armored in her resolve, Marcelle didn't flinch when she felt the smite fall atop her head. She didn't squeal or squirm as the blast flew down her neck and shoulders, racing down her spine like a feverish chill. Her hands shook and her teeth chattered as the Knight-Guardian drained her of whatever magical energy she currently possessed. He leeched her world of sound and color until it became as twisted and unrecognizable as the Fade, which is where Marcelle knew she would go when the effects wore off while she was unconscious. She would be with Faith, and her memories, and she would be far away from the pitying stare of Andraste and the solemn look of the Knight-Guardian standing above her.

Marcelle slumped forward, resting heavily on her shoulder and cheek as she walked the delicate line between dreams and consciousness. Anyone else would have protested at resting in such a position for an extended period of time, their rear in the air and their neck twisted at an odd angle, but Marcelle felt nothing. All sensation had fled from Marcelle's body with the Knight-Guardian's touch, and the only thing she had left when unconsciousness took her was a feeling of pity. She felt sad for these men and women.

* * *

><p><em>This author happens to be very pro-Templar in the mage vs. Templar debate, and swears that there are good Templars out there! We'll have to incorporate liberal amounts of penitent Ser Bryant somewhere to make amends...<em>

_We'll be seeing more of Marcelle in Chapter 14, though it will be Marcelle via Faith's eyes. She manages to frolick in the Fade with him a little bit, but suffice to say, Faith is not at peace and is very worried. _

_As always, I send my thanks out to the readers, but I have to send my love out to Josie and Shakespira. You two ladies never miss an update and always leave the most thoughtful of comments. It is a joy to know you both. :)_


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

When Marcelle came to, she found herself bound to the floor of the Sanctuary. Great iron chains had been manacled around her wrists and feet, loose enough so that she might stand if she felt the need, but tight enough that she could do no more than that. In Kirkwall, Marcelle had seen an Antivan circus, and in gilded cages the crafty, cunning Antivans had shown her and the rest of the city the wonders of the exotic jungles and desert plains. Great beasts stalked through iron bars, while creatures that looked as men but were covered in hair and had long, sullen faces were left out in the open on immense wooden platforms. The only thing that stopped these half-man beasts from fleeing was the thick chains around their ankles or wrists that were tethered securely to the floors of their wall-less cages. Marcelle felt a kinship with those poor beasts, chained as she was to the floor.

A book – the Chant of Light and all its verses – was spread open in front of her. It had been laid in front of her nose as she slept, as if the presence of the Maker's words would somehow ward away the Fade. As Marcelle pushed herself into a sitting position and her vision began to clear, she could make out writing in the margins of the pages, the arcane scribbles almost illegible. Curiosity overwhelmed her sense of safety, and she picked up the book and pulled it into her lap, squinting her eyes to decipher the text in the dim light.

She froze when she heard footsteps echoing on the stairs behind her, and held her breath when she heard the scrape of something being pushed towards her over the rug beside her.

"Eat," said a quiet, metallic voice.

Marcelle darted her eyes to her side and found a tin plate covered in bread dipped in some sort of sweet smelling fat. Marcelle's stomach rumbled; it smelt like bacon fat. A clatter drew her attention to another object – this time a cup, which looked to be filled with clean water.

"Eat," the voice said again quickly, a note of urgency in its tone, "before the guard shift changes."

Figuring that if it was a trap and that she was to be beaten if she ate the food, she might as well get a good mouthful of it before she was. Marcelle's hands spidered their way to the plate of food, her slender fingers picking up the soggy bread. She brought it quickly to her mouth and stuffed the hunk of food into it, her cheeks puffing out to accommodate its size. The fat slipped warm and delicious down the back of her throat, and she put her hands to her lips as she chewed to catch any crumbs or oil. She swallowed quickly and then washed the bread down with the cup of water, licking her lips and the inside of the cup for every last drop. She placed the cup atop the plate and whispered a silent prayer to the Maker in thanks.

The plate disappeared from her side, taken by a hand covered in a metal gauntlet. Armor rustled behind her, followed by the sound of footsteps. In the gloom of the twilight, for it was evening outside and there was little light in the chantry, Marcelle made out the figure of a helmed Templar walking down the steps of the Sanctuary and through the rows of empty pews below it. He held the metal plate behind his back as he walked, and the light of the candles winked along its metal curves.

Marcelle wiped her mouth on the back of her sleeve, curious as to the Templar's intentions. She had not eaten properly in days – not since she'd been taken from Lothering, at the very earliest. The Templars had never offered her food on their march to Redcliffe, at least, not with the intent of letting her eat it. She was unsure why they would start feeding her _now. _Perhaps they did not intend to kill her, as Marcelle had feared they might. Perhaps they truly did want her alive.

Left alone with the book, Marcelle flipped through the Chant of Light with her greasy fingertips, wincing every time her thumb smeared some of the holy text. She got as far as the third canticle when the heavy sound of feet against stone echoed down one of the tapestry-covered corridors of the Chantry. Marcelle continued to read, or rather feigned reading, listening to the footsteps draw closer even as she turned a page without having read a single word upon it.

A pair of heavy leather boots covered in metal plates stepped their way into Marcelle's vision, and she heard a similar pair march their way behind her. The mage flicked her eyes up to the helmed Templar, serene and blue as though she was one of the Tranquil.

"Have you come to collect the Chant?" Marcelle asked in a soft voice. She closed it and offered it to the Templar who stood in front of her. "You may have it back, if so."

"Keep it," the Templar above her replied, "it will ward away the Fade."

Marcelle recognized the voice: it was the Templar who had fed her only moments earlier. "Ah," Marcelle lowered the book and ran her fingers down its weathered spine. "Well, that is very kind of you."

"Stop talking to her," said the Templar standing behind her. "And just do your duty."

Marcelle instinctively pulled away from the grasping hands of the sympathetic templar standing in front of her, but found herself retreating back into the iron-clad knees of the man standing behind her. With nowhere to go, Marcelle was forced to submit herself to the drain. She braced herself for the violent crash of anti-magic energy on her head, and frowned when no such blow came. Instead, the Templar placed his hands on either side of her head in a move that was reminiscent of what had been done to her on the road to Redcliffe. The slow hum of the lyrium resonating in the Templar's blood filled Marcelle's senses, and as he chased the magical energy out of her body, she saw the world began to turn grey as ash around her.

Numbed and dazed, Marcelle fell forward into the Templar's waiting hands. He knelt beside her, easing her weight to his chest. He plucked the book from her lap, her limp fingers easily giving way to his own strong grip. Marcelle gave a shapeless cry of distress as he took the book from her, but the Templar shushed her and laid it on the ground. He then rested Marcelle's head atop the book and stood, stepping over her listless body.

Marcelle watched with unfocused eyes as the two Templars strode away from her, disappearing back into the covered alcove they had come from. She lay like that all night, still and unmoving in her chains atop the Sanctuary. Sleep did not come, nor did sensation. It was only when the first rays of sunlight fell through the great windows over Marcelle's head did she find that she had the strength to move once more, and sitting herself up amidst the dust motes she reached for the book and opened it to where she had left off.

She busied herself with memorizing the chants as the Chantry came to life all around her. Brothers and Sisters, as well as Mothers and the Revered Mother went about their business around her, tending to candles, dusting books, and chanting when appropriate. When the Chantry was fully lit, the Templars entered, sitting on the pews as they prepared for their morning prayers. And there on the Sanctuary Marcelle sat as a child, her chains hidden by the folds of her robe, as the Revered Mother preached from a podium not more than an arm's length away from Marcelle.

Marcelle bowed her head and closed her eyes, as though in prayer. Tangled hair fell over her forehead, and Marcelle took the opportunity to use its protection to observe the unhelmed Templars from between the railings of the Sanctuary. She saw the Knight-Guardian's scarred and handsome face in the front row, beside him sat Ser Karras, and some other Templars that Marcelle recognized from the journey. The Templars preferred to keep their helms on when she was around them, but she had seen them remove their helms to wipe at sweaty foreheads or scratch their heads. She knew their faces, though she did not know their names, or anything about them, for that matter. All she knew was that the sea of men and women sitting below her liked her not – save perhaps one, who was kind.

When the Revered Mother's sermon on mercy ended, the Knight-Guardian made his way up the Sanctuary to speak to her. He had two Templars flanking him, one of which was Ser Karras. The other two Marcelle could not recognize. They stood guard around her as the Knight Guardian placed his hand on the slender shoulder of the Revered Mother, and spoke to her in tones that were deep, rich, and gentle. He praised her for her good work, for her patience with him, and for her virtue. It was everything that the Revered Mother wanted to hear, and she left the platform of the Sanctuary glowing.

"You behaved very well during the sermon, Marcelle Hawke," the Knight-Guardian said, turning to face her. He knelt down so that his face was close to hers. "You could have disrupted the sermon or hurt the Revered Mother."

"Why would I do such a thing?" asked Marcelle. She furrowed her delicate white brow, mortally offended by the Knight-Guardian's insinuation.

"Do you not want to be free of your chains?" The Knight-Guardian gestured to her ankles. "The Revered Mother has a key to free you. Did you not know that?"

"I did not," she replied slowly, "but it matters not to me. Why should I desire freedom? You have my phylactery. You will only find me again."

"Are you sincere?" mused the Knight-Guardian, "or do you play with me?"

Marcelle did not dignify him with an answer. She merely closed her eyes and turned her face away.

"What do you think, Ser Karras?" asked the Knight-Guardian, tilting his head to the man who stood at Marcelle's left shoulder.

"She is playing with you," Ser Karras said with all the conviction of Kirkwall behind him. "I have seen what she is capable of. There is no trusting this woman. She could squeeze your head from your shoulders, if she wished."

The Knight-Guardian did not acknowledge the accusation but instead bobbed his head. He turned his face to the man standing at Marcelle's right shoulder. "And you, Ser Garth?"

"I believe she is sincere," Ser Garth said. "We cannot keep her drained indefinitely, and I am sure that she has had many opportunities to draw upon her magic to harm us. Yet, she has not. She is dangerous, but if she truly wished to do us harm, she would have done so already."

Marcelle's heart thumped quickly in her chest. Ser Garth's voice was low and sweet, like swallowing water mixed with honey. It was also the voice of the kind Templar. Ser Garth. She would remember that name. She opened her eyes and chanced a look to the man at her right shoulder. She saw a wide jaw and a lower lip that had been split in two from a slice of the sword, but she saw no more than that for the Knight-Guardian had his hands on either side of her face and was drawing her gaze towards him.

"You are my little Kirkwall enigma." His gauntlets were cold against Marcelle's cheeks. "Reasonable, and yet so very misguided. You would have benefited greatly from training at a Circle of Magi, I think."

"As you say," Marcelle replied quietly. His use of the word "benefited" rather than "benefit" did not escape Marcelle's notice. They did not intend to take her to the Circle after all.

"They would have given you the clarity of mind that you lack." The Knight-Guardian gave a small shake of his head before he stood. "Ser Garth, if you would?"

Marcelle stiffened when she felt Ser Garth's gauntlets on either side of her face once more. She could not see him, only feel him, but she was glad that he was there. She liked the humming in his blood, the sweet song it sang to her as he unleashed the fury of his training upon her.

In truth, Ser Garth had the right of it. There were opportunities, the previous few minutes included, where Marcelle was in a strength of body and soundness of mind to do terrible things to her captors. She could have set the entire Chantry ablaze before the Templars found their way up to her, or she could have conjured a whirlpool of energy that sucked men and matter to its center, slowing their movement and halting their steps. She could also have, if she had felt _truly _desperate, cut her wrists upon the edges of her manacles and drawn upon the power of her blood to boil the blood of every living thing in the Chantry. So many things Marcelle could have done, and yet she had not, because she was a healer. And Marcelle would be damned if she proved any of them right about their fears of her.

She slipped into blissful unconsciousness, unaware that Ser Garth once more settled the book of chants on the ground and rested her head atop it as a pillow.

8-8-8

Faith was incredibly concerned.

Though time had little meaning for him, Faith had become acutely aware that his fledgling was spending more time in the Fade than she usually did and less time in her mortal body. Though Marcelle had no aversion to the Fade, Faith understood that his fledgling enjoyed the mortal realm better and that she tried to limit the amount of time she spent beyond the Veil. This sudden, almost force presence in Faith's home was a curious change of behavior for her, and as Faith was a creature of strict routine, it disrupted his own orderly harmony.

What unsettled him further was that when his fledgling did return to her mortal world, he could no longer "feel" her with the same intensity. As a mage, she straddled the boundary between the Fade and the mortal realm. It was normally quite easy to see where she was, for the Fade distorted around her as she used its energy to fuel her talents. But this distortion came and went, as if something was disrupting her connection to the Fade. The Fade was almost eerily still around his fledgling, hiding her from all but the keenest of Fade-born eyes. On those rare occasions when Faith thought his fledgling had winked out of existence completely, he had only to close his eyes and listen for the steady _thrum _of her heartbeat. This constant, resolute sound was the beacon that guided Faith's way as he trailed after her on her journeys. But as of late, even the drumming of her heart was no longer a reliable way to find her. The drumming of her heart had become weaker and weaker, and every time his fledgling left to return to her body, her heartbeat quieted more and more.

"Why does your heart weaken?" he had asked her, capturing her arm as she walked by him. "Why do you come here more often than you used to?"

But his fledgling had merely smiled at him and said nothing, disappearing into the dreamscape until she winked out of existence again.

Since her uncharacteristic arrivals, Faith had not encountered any demons. Such a thing was odd, since demons followed his fledgling at every opportunity: pride, lust, sloth, they all came for her, and he bested each one. And now that they had stopped coming, Faith found himself at a loss of what to do. He did not want to stray from his fledgling's side in case she needed him, but neither did he want to remain idle.

When next his fledgling entered the Fade, he asked her for a boon. "Fledgling," he called out to her as she walked away from, her steps slow and sluggish even in the dreamscape, "may I accompany you where you go?"

"Do as you wish, Faith," his fledgling replied.

Faith followed his mage down a cobblestone pathway. The Fade had given way to one of his mage's memories. He recognized the setting as her family's estate in Kirkwall, and it was a place that she had shown him often. He came to associate it with feelings of hopelessness, and it was not a place Faith enjoyed visiting for the memories it held often caused his fledgling pain and sadness.

But she was not taking him inside. Instead, she was walking him through the gardens, and this was new to Faith. Walls of ivy-covered rock rose up behind them as they passed into the heart of the gardens, acting as a barrier to keep the less kind denizens of the Fade out of her green paradise. There were many different varieties of flowers growing in the walled garden: pain, regret, sorrow, remembrance, love, perseverance; each flower was as brightly colored as the others. The red blossoms of love ringed the walkways; while pain's solemn blue petals fell unbidden from the trees. Vivid white blooms of hope trailed up the wall of the estate, creeping into an open window where curtains danced in the breeze.

His mage was settling herself on the grass beside a man whose face the desire demons enjoyed wearing. He was dressed in white armor which shone like polished resolve in his mage's mockery of sunlight. The gold trim of his armor was darker than the gold of his mage's hair, but his eyes were a far brighter blue. His fledgling called him Sebastian, and he had come to associate the man with a variety of his fledgling's different emotions, emotions that he remembered her father feeling for the woman he called "Leandra."

At first, his fledgling had described Sebastian to Faith in great detail with flushed cheeks and quick speech. She extolled his virtues and the purity of his heart, taking extra care to emphasize his devotion to the Maker. Her depiction of the man had intrigued Faith, and he found himself drawn to this surprisingly devout creature. For one who had been so enthralled with the pleasures of the desire demons in his youth, he must have been of incredibly strong willpower to break free of their spell and cling to Chastity. His faith in himself, and in a purpose greater than himself, must have been equally as strong.

As time had passed, the one called Sebastian began to occupy more and more of his fledgling's attention in the Fade. When she thought Faith was not around, she reconstructed memories of pure and brilliant love, of unshakeable faith, and resolute courage. Sebastian was standing at her side in battle, his body and his bow shielding her from the weapons of their enemies. Sebastian was wiping from the sweat from his brow with the back of an airy work shirt as his fledgling conjured a small cantrip to water the seeds he had just planted in her – her mother's – garden. Sebastian had her wrapped in his arms, her head tucked under his chin as he whispered words of comfort to a fledgling who would not cry.

But even though his fledgling thought he was not around, he was. Faith was always present, and he had seen her dreams, he had seen her memories.

When his fledgling had found out he had been watching, she'd been…embarrassed. "You must think very poorly of me," she'd said, "to think such things of a man who does not want me." His fledgling had admitted to growing attached to him, but expressed frustration at his apparent lack of interest. She built shrines and palaces for him in the dark recesses of her dreams, but for all she knew, Sebastian would be horrified. He had expressed a great revulsion about the Fade, and all those who dwelled and walked it.

"I would have thought poorly of you, fledgling," Faith had replied, "if it had been anyone but him. Even among my kind, spirits of Justice are not well liked. We find them loud and disruptive. And the elf has no…faith. His bitterness and resentment would do you no credit." It had mollified her, and they had not spoken of the matter since.

Faith watched from a distance as his fledgling lay back on the grass. She closed her eyes to the imaginary warmth of the sunlight, oblivious to how the recollection of Sebastian turned to look down at her. They were chattering about nonsensical things; this was a reprieve from a day at the Kirkwall Court for his fledgling, and Sebastian was commenting to her about how he did not envy her the work she did.

Sebastian slowly lowered himself to the grass and placed his arms behind his head. Faith's mage peeked an eye open at the rustling of his armor, and seeing him flat on his back, she turned to face him. She swept her hair over her shoulder and propped her cheek on her fist. The delicate soles of her white slippers peaked out from underneath the hem of her pale pink robes.

"Your armor," she whispered conspiratorially, "is going to have grass stains."

Sebastian chuckled. "As is your dress."

"Scandalous," was her teasing response. "I can already hear the town crier: Viscountess of Kirkwall and Prince of Starkhaven wear turf rather than war over it."

"War over turf?" Sebastian's smile was lazy and he closed his eyes. "I hardly think I would go to war with you over some grass, Hawke."

She slapped his stomach playfully in reproach, her fingers drumming against the scales of his undercoat. "I would hope you would not go to war with me at all!"

"Provided that you are a kind and just ruler, I will not have to."

"Mmm."

Faith watched his fledgling toy with Sebastian's coat, running her fingers against the scales so that they clinked together like tiny bells. After a few moments of doing this in content silence, Sebastian reached down and covered her hand with his.

"I do not want you to cut your fingertips on my armor, Marcelle."

"I heal quickly," she replied.

"Even so," Sebastian's eyes opened and he turned his head to look at her, his cheek resting on his arm, "I would not want to even unintentionally cause you pain."

"Ahhh," his fledgling chuckled and quickly averted her eyes, "that is very kind of you. And I would forgive you, even if you did."

"You are a marvel of a woman, Marcelle. If I did not think you would be a capable leader, I would suggest that you join the Chantry. You would make an excellent Sister."

"I am not sure if the Chantry accepts apostates into their ranks."

"I could ask the Grand Cleric to intervene on your behalf, if you wanted." Sebastian's face was bright and earnest, but Faith saw that his fledgling's was not. Her eyes lacked the same sparkle, the same glow of desire.

"Maybe one day," she replied quietly, looking up to the sky above them, "when I am no longer needed in Kirkwall."

"Somehow," Sebastian said, his eyes sad, "I suspect that you will always be needed in Kirkwall."

Marcelle rose to her knees and nestled herself into Sebastian's side. She tucked her legs under her and rested her forearms along the polished enamel of his chest piece. "And that is why I need all the help I can get."

Sebastian's brow knitted together in something akin to confusion or concern as the mage brought her face close to his. "H…Hawke?"

"Would you make a formal alliance," Marcelle said in a whisper, "between Starkhaven and Kirkwall?"

"Now?"

She nodded.

"Hawke…Marcelle." Sebastian sat up, pushing himself upright with his elbows. He gathered her hands in his and settled them demurely in her lap. His thumbs brushed the backs of her knuckles. "You know I would…if I could. But I will not make this bargain, I will not pledge anything to you now until I am sure of this myself. You deserve no less than a prince, and if I accept your offer, then Maker help me, I shall be one."

Faith watched his mage open her mouth to reply, but no sound came out of her mouth. A look of fear washed over her face and she clutched a hand to her chest. Something was happening in the mortal world to disturb the dreamer, and so the green paradise began to crumble around them. The memory, no longer sustained, collapsed inward on itself. The trees began to shatter and the flowers began to wither and die. Sebastian remained the only constant force, and Faith saw Marcelle fling herself atop him, her lips pressing feverishly against his. The memory of Sebastian did not reciprocate her touches, merely held still as his mage clung to the last few fragments of the Fade.

"What is happening, fledgling!" cried Faith, sprinting towards her as the landscape warped. "Tell me!" As he reached her side, the memory of Sebastian broke into a thousand tiny pieces in her hands, and Marcelle scrabbled in the withered grass to put him back together. "Leave him, fledgling!" Faith ordered, grasping her hands and stilling their frantic quest to piece a thing that did not exist into existence.

Marcelle swatted his hands away and threw her had back and grimaced. "I am being revived. Maker, _why_?" she cried. "Do I drown or do I burn?" Her white fingers wrapped themselves below her jaw.

"Who is reviving you?" Faith knelt beside her and gripped her arms tightly. "Tell me!"

"The _Templars,_" she croaked, clutching at her throat.

A tremor of something cold ran through Faith's body, and it was a sentiment he recognized as anger. "Why?"

"I do not know," Marcelle gasped. "I do not care. They just are. They put me under, only to pull me out."

Faith wrapped a hand over hers, replacing her fingers in their quest to soothe her neck and throat. The ground shook below them, and the Amell Estate split in two with a great crack that sounded like the ending of the world. "Be strong, fledgling," Faith urged, his fingers massaging against her skin firmly, "have _faith. _Your Sebastian said he would return for you." Through his gauntlets, Faith could feel how very warm and alive she was.

"He did…not…"

Faith captured her face between his hands, tilting her head so that her glassy and disoriented eyes were on him. "I just _heard _him pledge such a thing. Have f_aith, _fledgling. B_elieve _in this."

"I…" she reached out a hand and grasped the side of his helmet firmly, her fingers closing around one of the large winged crests. "I…I will try. Oh, Maker," she hissed, "it burns. My throat is burning."

The sky above them flickered with arcane lightning and the rattling of thunder that sounded like the footsteps of heavily armored men.

Faith knew he should have retreated away from the growing maelstrom of purple light that danced below his fledgling's legs, but he could not bring himself to abandon her. He clutched her tightly to his chest, wrapping his heavily clad arms around her shoulders, "I am always with you, fledgling," he raised his voice against the roar of the wind. "You are never alone! I will be waiting for you! Be strong!"

Marcelle had no chance to respond, for all at once the Fade crumbled around them entirely. Reality spun, and everywhere was there sound and light. Screaming, tumbling head over heels through the Void and the Veil, Faith was torn from Marcelle. He clutched for her frantically in the grey blankness, his limbs growing heavier with each move he made. He touched nothing, his hands skimming only air, and in those moments where eternity stretched out before him cold and lonely he felt his first true pang of fear. It was not until his fist collided with something soft, yet unyielding, did the panic subside, because it was in that very same moment that Faith discovered he had _eyes_.

* * *

><p><em>Cliffhanger! What shall happen, I wonder? *grins* We'll just have to find out in Chapter 15, won't we?<em>

_Chapter 14's edits were brought to you via _Bloody Mary _by _Lady Gaga. _Thank you, Serindrana. :P_

_To those of you who have been reading and following _Worth_ - thank you ever so much! The reviews, alerts, and favorites mean the world to me. _

_And for those who may have missed it, the long awaited Chapter 34 of _Trovommi Amor_ was posted earlier for your reading pleasure. _


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

Ser Garth knelt beside the limp form of the mage, and under the watchful eyes of Ser Karras and the Knight-Guardian, he gently propped her back against his knee. Her head hung limply over his thigh, her mouth opened by the weight of her head pulling on the muscles of her neck and jaw, and it was into her mouth past her pale, chapped lips that he poured a healing draught. The Knight-Guardian wished to make sure that Marcelle remained alive and relatively uninjured, because he had more questions to ask her.

Which was the purpose behind why he had Ser Garth feeding her the draught: he had questions to ask her _right _now. Marcelle had been "sleeping" since the sermon that morning, but morning had given way into afternoon, and now afternoon had become evening, and the Knight-Guardian had grown impatient waiting for her to rise.

The first sign of Marcelle's waking came in the form of a change in her breathing. The slow, steady breaths became shallow and erratic. It was as though in crossing the boundary between dreams and life she had been caught in some terrible nightmare. Her rapid breathing sent puffs off hot air rising up against Ser Garth's face, and he blinked against it. And then as if her nightmare became manifest, Marcelle's body arched and her arm shot forward, hands twisting and clawing at the air as though it was grabbing for something. Legs that should not have known strength scrabbled and kicked at the floor, and finding purchase against Ser Garth's form. Marcelle came to stand, taking Ser Garth with her.

Ser Garth watched in horror and fascination as the Champion of Kirkwall writhed and changed. Her skin cracked apart, blue light leaking from the sundering of her mortal seams. He had seen mages become abominations before. He had watched initiates take their Harrowing, and seen the way their flesh – their very soul – became mutated by the corrupting presence of the demon. But this was unlike anything he had ever seen before. There was no discoloring of her skin, no malformations of her figure that suggested something unnatural lurked within her. She appeared normal – at least, as normal as one could be when there was energy spilling out of every pore.

And then all at once the wind left Ser Garth's lungs as something hard connected with his breastplate. It dented inward at the force of it, and Ser Garth found himself flying through the air, his greaves breaking the wooden railing of the Sanctuary with the force at which he was thrown. Across the Chantry he went, until his body connected against the hard, stone wall. The stones were unyielding, and Ser Garth was battered against them as a wave upon the rocks. His shattered body collapsed to the ground and blood pooled around his head where he lay.

His Templar brothers and sisters who had been watching immediately rushed to his aide, kneeling around him and trying to coax blood and brain matter back into his body with shaking gauntlets. A young Mother knelt beside him and whispered his last rites, before she gently instructed his comrades to leave him, and to see to the abomination that had caused his death. They did this with grim looks behind their armored faces, though their helms did little to protect their eyes from the brilliant glow of white light coming from the figure chained to the floor in front of the altar. As they approached, they put their gauntlets over their eyes, and let the sound of voices be their guide.

Upon the Sanctuary itself, the Knight-Guardian stared with reserved curiosity at the creature that had crossed from the Fade. Ser Karras, on the other hand, was staring at it with open-mouthed shock, and the Knight-Guardian had to roughly shove the younger man away and down the stairs so that he would not interfere.

The Knight-Guardian rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, watching the possessed mage closely. After the initial violent outburst, the creature had quieted. It had collapsed back to its knees after throwing Ser Garth across the room, and had tucked itself tightly into a ball and shivered against a perceived cold. The shivering rattled the chains around the creature's wrists and ankles, filling the room with the gentle rattling of metal.

He cleared his throat. "Who am I speaking with?" asked the Knight-Guardian, squinting his eyes against the glare of the light spilling out from the creature's insides.

"_I am Faith,_" said a voice that was not the Champion's, for it was deep, male, and resonant beyond mortal comprehension. _"And I am here against my will._" The possessed mage's face snapped up to gaze at the Knight-Guardian's, twisting over its shoulder farther than should have been humanly possible. The possessed mage's eyes looked like two pools of molten lyrium, a twisting blue and silver quagmire of shifting energy.

"You are here because you elected to be," the Knight-Guardian corrected in a voice that was undaunted by the creature's expression. "This mage you are possessing told me that you would not enter the mortal realm unless you had reason to do so. Clearly, you cannot be here against your will."

Faith lifted hands that were not his to his face. He stared down at palms that were luminous and white, with fingers that were cracked and leaking energy. He turned them over and stared at the slender fingers, seeing dried red flakes and blotches below the nails that stood out almost purpose against the glow from beneath his skin. He saw blood – the mage's blood – for magic only healed. It did not cleanse. It took Faith several moments to understand what he was seeing. Confusion slipped across his features, for Faith had never been… _injured _before. "_You have been hurting her._"

The Knight-Guardian gave a snort of indignation. "I imagine the torment of her physical body is nothing when compared to the torment you have inflicted upon her soul, demon."

It was both the wrong and the right thing to say, for the Knight-Guardian received a reaction and Faith received a reason _to _act.

Faith stood abruptly, the chains that bound his body – not his body – to the sanctuary's floor rattling with the force of his motions. The metal creaked and groaned as the chains were stretched and tugged to their limit. Liquid energy erupted from the cracks in his skin, tendrils of light streaking high into the air to dance with the dust motes. "_I am no demon! I am a protector!"_

The Knight-Guardian edged around the side of the altar, letting two fingers trail along the beautifully carved marble. He put distance between himself and the volatile visitor. "I have no doubt you want to protect your host," he said in a measured voice, "for without her body, you could not visit this world, could you?" When he reached the end of the altar he stalked back, and the way the mage's head turned to follow him as he moved did not escape him.

"_She is not my host! She is my charge!"_ Faith's – Marcelle's – eyes bored into the Templar's.

Both Templar and Spirit of Faith were flushed with the fire of outrage. Faith could not imagine a world in which he would do Marcelle harm, and the Knight-Guardian could not imagine a world in which such a spirit wouldn't do harm. To the Knight-Guardian, Faith had just abused his naïve mage's trust, and to Faith, the Knight-Guardian had simply abused his mage.

"You possess her like a puppet," the Knight-Guardian cried in a voice filled with outrage. "Your 'charge!' Look at you! Where is she? Where is she hiding in there? What room have you locked her free will in so that she cannot escape?"

"_I protect her._"

He walked with quick footsteps around the altar to stand in front of the spirit, the Sword of Andraste blazing hot and bright against his chest as a symbol of his protection and his faith. He grasped the possessed mage's face between his fingers, the lyrium in his blood humming at such proximity to the raw presence of the Fade. "What rights have you, or any of your kind, to call yourselves protectors!"

Faith's eyes widened as memories that were not his flooded to the surface of his consciousness, a dam having been torn down somewhere in the recesses of his – her- mind. Marcelle had called this man a _Templar. _Faith had a vague understanding of the term, the majority of his knowledge coming from her father. Malcolm had called them _mage-hunters, _and Faith had always detected bitterness in Malcolm's feelings towards them_. _But Marcelle had called them something different. She had called them _guardians, _and she had not been bitter at all. It had confused Faith initially, he had not been able to reconcile how one could be hunted and yet also guarded by something. In Faith's world, everything simply _was. _There was no duality to his brothers and sisters in the Fade. If they were guardians, than that is what they were. If they hunted mages, then that is what they did. There was only one, singular purpose.

But Templars were guardians of mages who also hunted them and, from Malcolm's recollections, caused them pain. Malcolm said they abused the privileges given to them by the Maker and that their absolute power over the mages corrupted them to commit the most heinous of sins. Yet, Malcolm himself admitted that he had escaped because of the kindness of one Templar: one that hunted mages, but who also did not hunt mages. Faith did not understand how such a thing could be possible, only that in the confusing and wonderful mortal realm it was.

"It is my solemn duty," the Knight-Guardian continued, unaware of Faith's thoughts, "to protect the mages in my care from _things _like you. To stop your demonic influence on their fragile minds." He tightened his fingers on either side of Faith's cheeks. "And to prevent you from entering this world."

Energy flared around the Knight-Guardian's fingers, and Faith felt the humming of lyrium in response, its resonance magnified by the thin metal of his gauntlets. "_Do you believe what you say, human?_"

The Knight-Guardian's eyes narrowed. "Of course I do."

"_Then let me see._"

"Wh - "

Faith lifted one of Marcelle's hands to the Knight-Guardian's neck, snapping the chain from its fastening on the floor. He caught the man right below the chin, slipping over the man's gorget to touch the skin. Faith's being danced along the man's mortal mind, slipping through his pores and in his nose and mouth, deep into the very heart of his being. He felt the Knight-Guardian's fear, an alien tendril amidst a garden of absolute _certainty. _ There was also conviction, a firm belief that no matter what the man did he was right. And there was also intent. He felt it as clearly as he felt his own heartbeat. A trap…a…

…A feeling of success. The _lure _had worked.

The Knight-Guardian laughed hoarsely against Faith's firm grip. He held up a hand to stop the Templars who were approaching from interfering. "All of you are the same," he ground out with a grim smile. "Demon, spirit, it does not matter. You both come into this world unwanted, and you destroy everything you find."

Faith recoiled, burning his path back into Marcelle's mind less than gently. He retreated and raked his way out across the Knight-Guardian's mind, searching before he left for something beyond the blindness he felt in the man. It was horrible. There was not a speck of Humility, not a drop of Charity, and not a single ounce of Compassion. All he had was Faith…and Fear.

The man before him was no guardian.

Energy, white, hot, and angry surged from Faith's fingertips. "_You are no protector, mortal. I can sense nothing in you that makes you worthy of such a title. You are petty, and weak, and filled with fear. All you have is your Faith, and you have let this lead you blindly into Conviction. Mortal men are demons of their own making, their flaws corrupting and perverting even the kindest of souls._"

The Knight-Guardian hissed as the skin around his neck began to burn. "You killed an innocent man," he ground out. "Do not talk to me of demons…_Demon._" He placed a hand to the possessed mage's chest and felt the lyrium inside him swirling and swimming, its energy magnifying and intensifying to a point where he felt its power release from his body and into that of the possessed-mage.

Faith stumbled backwards away from him, and to the Knight-Guardian's pleasure, back to wherever it was he had come from. The glowing cracks in the mage's body began to smooth and fade, and her eyes returned to their normal blue hue before they rolled up into her skull as she collapsed forward onto the floor unconscious.

The Knight-Guardian put his hands to his neck and probed at the burnt skin there. He inhaled deeply to still the shaking in his fingers. He could barely feel the pain of the burns, and he waved away Ser Karras's concerned hands. "Focus on her," he said, nudging Marcelle with his boot. "Get the chains back on her, and drain her for good measure again."

"It will be done." Ser Karras bowed his head and knelt down by the mage's side.

Stalking away to his office, the Knight-Guardian barely paid any attention the unfurling of the activity around him. He saw out of the corner of his eye that his Templars were trying to tend to the fallen body of Ser Garth, and he regretted the man's loss. He had been a good man, a good Templar. But he had also served as an example, the best example that the Knight-Guardian could think of really, for the dangers of spirits. Ser Garth had been trying to help Marcelle, and the spirit had brutally lashed out at him.

As he shut the door and sat himself down at his desk, the Knight-Guardian had to wonder what had triggered the possession. Had it been the lack of food and water? The regular drainings? The isolation? A fear of the Maker? A weakness on the part of the mage? There were so many variables that the Knight-Guardian had not controlled for, simply because he could not. Every mage was different and would break under different circumstances. And if there were as many different types of Spirits in the Fade as there were demons, no doubt each of them had their own breaking points as well.

Ultimately though, it did not matter how they'd managed to make the Spirit of Faith possess Marcelle Hawke, only that they'd done it. A so called "good" spirit, a creature that was not a demon, had possessed a mage. The Knight Vigilant was not interested in Marcelle Hawke's personal weakness, or in the volatility of her spirit companion, he was only interested in the knowledge that mages were at risk from more things in the Fade than just demons.

And more importantly, the incident on the Sanctuary had also proven that any creature from the Fade, no matter its intent, had the same potential for violence. Spirit, demon, it did not matter how good a spirit claimed its intentions were, it was still an outsider in the mortal realm. It had no control over itself. Its power was greater than that of any mage's, and thus so was its damage. Poor Ser Garth was a testament to such a thing, as were the burns on the Knight-Guardian's neck.

Plucking a piece of blank parchment from a stack on his desk and taking up his quill, the Knight-Guardian proceeded to write a letter to the Knight Vigilant detailing all he had discovered that day. The Knight Vigilant would be most pleased by the information. When he was done penning his report, and he had sealed it appropriately, the Knight-Guardian pulled another sheet of parchment from the stack. On this he wrote a short request, and he signed the bottom with a large flourish before sealing it and stacking it over the letter to the Knight Vigilant.

Marcelle Hawke was a problem that had only one solution. She was dangerous, and at a liability for a second possession. But she also had information about the Fade and its denizens that the Knight-Guardian and the Knight Vigilant wanted. She was a font of knowledge, albeit a font that was polluted by ill-placed sentimentality and affection for a creature that would do her harm. The Knight-Guardian knew of only one way that would not only save Marcelle from herself, but would also filter her knowledge and provide the Templar Order with the clear, distillated truth. With the Knight Vigilant's permission, she would become Tranquil, and all would be the better for it.

* * *

><p><em>We're talking of possession ala Connor Guerrin, not possession ala Anders. No Marcelle +1 here. And b<em>_oy, I hope that in Chapter 16 Sebastian has gotten his act together and is somewhere nearby. ;)_

_To those of you who've been following along: thank you for doing so! I'm glad you're enjoying _Worth_. Still have a lot of chapters left to go. _


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16 **

Sebastian had expected Lothering to be…smaller. From Marcelle's description of the town, it had sounded like a hamlet with nothing more than a general store, a tavern, and a few scattered farms around the edges of a chantry. Guiding his horse along the West Road, he found that Lothering was actually much larger and busier. There was indeed a chantry and a tavern, and a general store as well, but there was also a blacksmith, stables, an apothecary, butcher, baker, and an entire slew of stalls in the town's central square. Situated as Lothering was at the junction of two rivers, Sebastian should have expected no less. And if it had been small before its sack by the darkspawn, it would only have been a matter of time before it was expanded.

It was easy to see where "new" Lothering began and "old" Lothering ended. Many of the buildings in the town's square looked to be new, at least built within five years or so, and were well tended with fresh thatching for their roofs. The chantry had been washed white, and was gleaming like silver in the murky sunlight, though Sebastian saw how the stones of the lowest foundation were a different color than the stones at the foundation's base, their secret having been revealed by the way the earth had been dug away from the sides of the chantry to accommodate an expanding garden.

As Sebastian passed through Lothering's center and began to make his way to the outskirts on the other side of the town, he also became painfully aware of the change in housing quality. The houses on the outskirts were small and poorly kept, the small shacks beyond them even more so with their creaking hinges and rotting wood exteriors. They were parts of "old" Lothering, survivors of time and the Blight that hung like a heavy shadow around the edge of the town. It was likely that the "proper" folk of the town, those who had moved to Lothering to claim their opportunities and take their land from the refugees, never passed beyond their ring of clean little shops and homes in the town's center, refusing to stray beyond the pale.

Sebastian assumed that he'd find Marcelle in one of the older shacks in the town, as far away as she could possibly be from the roving eyes of the Templars. To that end, he nudged his horse down muddy side streets and through weed filled gardens, over cobblestones and packed earth, letting the smell of rot and old rushes guide his way. The homes could have been quite beautiful, if their owners had the time and money to repair them. Though they were packed together tightly, each little shack had at least a yard along one side in which the owner could grow something for their own ends, and each yard was enclosed by either a wall made of stones or wood. The plots of land became significantly larger the closer one grew to the edges, until the borders of the yards met farmland.

He wandered aimlessly through this slum of houses, weaving his way between them until one in particular caught his eye, mostly because it was nearly hidden from view by the other homes. He recalled Hawke mentioning that her family had managed to escape detection by the Templars because of such a thing, and so he nudged his horse off the cobblestones and onto the dirt path that wound towards it.

Hawke's home was the most orderly of the buildings in the area, though that was not saying much and was likely due to the fact that any and all trappings had been stripped from its exterior. The wood stood grey and barefaced, a sharp contrast against the dark brown door that swung open and shut in the breeze to reveal an empty house. A garden was freshly planted along the front of the house, a trail of upturned earth leading around the side of the house to what was another garden patch. Dismounting, Sebastian tethered his horse loosely to the edge of a small fence and went to investigate the grounds. He rounded the corner of the house, and there something green and leathery in the dirt caught Sebastian's eye, and he knelt down to gather it.

It was a pouch of seeds. He turned the contents into his hand, watching as tiny satchels of different colors filled his open palm. Sebastian remembered the seeds and their container, and remembered the woman who gave it to him with startling clarity. The Grand Cleric of Kirkwall, Elthina, had asked him to deliver these seeds to Marcelle Hawke so that she could plant them in her garden. When she had received them she had kissed his cheek and vowed that she'd plant them as soon as she was able…but Hawke didn't. She hadn't had the time, for war and unfurled its banner over Kirkwall. The memory was the last _happy _memory he had of Marcelle, as it was the last time he'd seen her before Anders had destroyed the Chantry.

A flare of regret passed through Sebastian as he remembered Marcelle's soft lips against his cheek, and the quiet puffing of her breath on his skin. She'd been in a pink dress of silk, and it had been tied with a red sash. Her hair had been pinned into place with red combs that resembled roses. When he had seen her, he'd asked her if she had been entertaining guests. She had shaken her head in the negative, and instead said, "the only person I thought to expect today was you."

He had been very fond of her then. Marcelle had been kind and wise, and beautiful beyond all mortal measure. He imagined that Andraste must have been similar, though Andraste was fierce where Marcelle was not. Andraste wielded a sword as well as words that were sharper than any blade. Marcelle wielded only a woman's wiles and her magic, and was as gentle in her speech as she was in her spirit. Andraste used force to push back the Imperium, but Marcelle would probably have invited their leaders over for dinner at her estate and convinced them to leave.

"_You left without letting her explain." _The Warden Commander's words echoed painfully in Sebastian's head. _"She is not the villain you assume her to be." _

But wasn't she? If nothing else, she was a villain by negligence, by _enabling. _Her kind words had only encouraged a troubled soul. Her kind words had only pardoned a disturbed mind.

"_Pardoned a disturbed mind?_" The Warden Commander laughed. Sebastian could see her, plain as day, stalking about the garden in front of him, her sword swinging at her hip. She was grey and muted, almost as intangible as mist, but she was, unmistakably, _there. _He could even smell the scent of lavender and armor polish that clung to her skin.

Sebastian put a hand to his head and felt the heat of the sun's rays overhead and the way they made his scalp hot. It was a warm day; so warm that he was beginning to see and hear things.

"_There are better punishments than death. Death is so easy," _drawled the Warden Commander as she ran a gauntlet along one of the wooden walls of the house, her fingers leaving no trail in the dirt and dust along the planks, "_living is so hard._"

Sebastian watched her from his crouch on the ground, and his hand tightened around the pouch and its contents. "The Maker judges all. There is no better punishment than that."

"_You are so wrong, Prince Vael,_" the Warden Commander sauntered around the side of the house, the last echo of her voice calling out over a grey pauldron, "_Mercy is the best punishment for princes and traitors alike._"

Sebastian's lips parted and he thought he tasted the tang of horror on his tongue. "No."

He stood and went to follow after her, thinking himself absurd for doing it, but doing it nonetheless because he wanted (desperately) to be right. All he found around the other side of the house was empty air, and with a frustrated sigh, Sebastian slipped the seed satchels back in the pouch and then placed it atop one of the barrels lined against the back wall of the house. The area here was shady, and Sebastian took the opportunity to hide from the sun for a few moments.

A part of Sebastian wanted to dismiss the entire moment as merely a flash of weakness brought on by the sun and not enough water. Yet, another part of Sebastian believed that such a vision would not have come without a reason. Whether it was him feeling guilty or something sent from the Maker, that part of Sebastian wasn't sure. But the fact remained that what had transpired had made him feel uneasy about his course of action – to bring Marcelle to justice - and it was that spiritual part of Sebastian that won the brief war in his heart. The vision had been bizarre and unwanted, but there was no denying that the Warden Commander's words had ripped a seam of doubt in him, and that she had been sent to him for a reason.

Sebastian was completely convinced that what Marcelle had done was wrong beyond reason, and he was not sure he could be swayed otherwise. However, and he sighed to himself as he came to this conclusion, there would not be any harm in listening to Marcelle plead her case. When he took her back to Starkhaven, he would give her the mercy of an actual trial within his court. There was no guarantee that she would win her case, but she would have the opportunity to at least explain her actions and her part in them. And if her explanation was found wanting, then he had just cause to let her hang from over one of the city's walls for Anders to see. He would not _just _execute her. He was a better man than that.

Wiping the sweat away from his forehead, Sebastian returned to the small garden and scanned the ground for any other signs of Marcelle. All he saw here footprints that had been baked into the mud. He saw large footprints and…much smaller footprints. They were all around him, and he spun in a circle and saw the way the toes of Marcelle's shoes had dug into the mud as she'd spun to face something…

"Eh…can I help you, lad?"

Sebastian looked up, startled to be caught snooping. An old man with broad shoulders and a thick grey beard was watching him from the road.

Sebastian narrowed his eyes and puffed out his chest. He held his arms firmly by his sides. "I am looking for a young lady. Marcelle Hawke. Have you seen her?"

"Miss Hawke? You're too late, lad." The old man sighed and shook his head. "The Templars were here not more than a week ago to collect her. I always knew there was something strange about the Hawkes, but I would never have guessed it was magic! Good man, Malcolm, and good kids too. Wasn't really sure about the youngest daughter, but Marcelle was the sweetest girl you ever could have known. Was just as kind when she returned too. Shame the Templars took her, but I understand the need."

Dread slithered down Sebastian's spine, cold fingers tickling his nerves and tightening his insides. The Templars had taken Marcelle, and there was only one thing for it. Sebastian found that he was already striding to his horse, brushing aside the old man as he untied it from the fence. "Do you know where they were going?"

"It looked like they were taking the road towards Redcliffe. They built a brand new Chantry there not more than five years ago, so I imagine that's where they're stationed. It was a gift from the old Arlessa. Gossips said she had it built to appease the Divine because her son was found out to be a mage. I've been there a few times. Buildings like that don't really belong in Ferelden. Oh," the man ducked his head, "I beg yer pardon, ser. I know you're not from 'round these parts…"

The Prince of Starkhaven pursed his lips and mounted the swift palfrey the Warden Commander had given him. "Thank you, Messere," he said curtly, "for the information." He didn't give the man anytime to respond, since he did not want to listen to anymore gossip or warbling on about Marcelle's family. He urged his palfrey into a swift pace down the West Road, the wind pulling and tugging at his hair.

He should have felt _happy _that the Templars had captured her. By all rights, he could have given up the chase and gone straight back to Starkhaven because the Templars would either hide her away in the Circle, or kill her, and either of those solutions would be satisfactory to him and rip Anders in two. Yet, thinking of Marcelle at the mercy of the Templars didn't bring him any sort of satisfaction. At one point it might have, when the thought of it was theoretical. But it wasn't, she had well and truly been captured, and…he felt pity for her.

In his mind's eye, he could see her submitting to their judgment without so much as a cry for help, her head bowed forward as they severed it from her neck, or however it was the Templars chose to kill mages. It reminded him of Andraste's silence when she was put to the torch by the Tevinter Magisters. She was so certain of the Maker's love and willthat she did not make a sound as the flames and the suffering consumed her. The beauty of her strained face and the strength of her resolve had broken the men who watched her burn. It had been too much for Archon Hessarian to bear, and moved to pity by her stoicism, he pierced her heart himself.

Sebastian was unsure what future he was riding towards, and if there was anything he could do, or if he even _wanted _to do anything, but he was on the path now and there was no turning back.

* * *

><p><em>Fly, Sebastian, fly! <em>

_Chapter 17 heralds the return of Marcelle, and she's going to have to come to terms with what Faith did in the mortal realm. Chapter 18 is when it all goes down. ;)_

_Thank you, readers, for, well, reading! I'm happy to be pleasing so many of you. _


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

Since Faith had possessed Marcelle, he found that she had been avoiding him. Though he always knew where she was, whenever he moved in her direction he felt her move away. It saddened Faith, and while he might otherwise have let his fledgling have her privacy, there was a tremor of anticipation in the Fade, as though the magical world itself knew that something was about to happen. And so Faith chased after her, following her through winding gardens and broken cityscapes until at last she could run no more.

Faith discovered Marcelle in the ruins of the Kirkwall Chantry. She was kneeling amidst the rubble, prostrating herself on the floor before a statue of Andraste whose head had been sundered from its body by the terrible blast that had ripped the building asunder. His fledgling's forehead was pressed into the ash, and her fingers were curled around a charred pennant that bore the Maker's sun. Above and around her were her companions and the leaders of Kirkwall's two soon-to-be-warring factions. They were all frozen in space and time, lifeless statues with faces of horror and exultation staring upwards into a sky that was red and grey and filled with light.

Isabela's eyes were round with surprise, and she had the ghost of a giddy smirk on her lips – not in joyous agreement of the carnage, but in self-deprecating wonderment. If the statue could have spoken, it would have exclaimed aloud, "Isabela, you silly slag, what have you gotten yourself into?" Beside Isabela stood Merrill, who wore a mask of utter horror. There were tears shining in her forest green eyes, and she was clutching to the older pirate's arm with white fingers. Aveline stood slightly in front of Merrill, having looked to have stepped there intentionally by the way she was positioned. She had her hand stretched out behind her, the tips of her fingers almost brushing against the Dalish mage's stomach, as though she was trying to shield her from the explosion, or keep her from running into its ashes.

Varric was watching the sight unfold before him with one hand on his head. He was standing near Fenris, who had his face turned towards Anders, his eyes narrowed hatefully at the mage. Anders was ignoring Fenris, ignoring everything actually. His eyes were closed and he had a blissful smile on his features, though none of this could hide the trails of silvery tears that had fallen down his cheeks. Anders was triumphant, but not _happy. _He was in pain, but committed. Sebastian was simply in pain, having fallen to his knees as he watched the rubble rain down. His hands were outstretched in a prayer for the fallen.

Meredith and Orsino both wore matching expression of outrage, proving that they were more similar than not. They each had instinctively clapped their hands over their hearts, metal gauntlet meeting breastplate and kid leather meeting black velvet. For a single moment they were unified in thought and belief, but as soon as the memory ended, Faith knew that this common ground would disappear. He had seen the memory many times before, and Faith could only assume that he would see it many times more.

Faith settled himself in the dust beside Marcelle. Kneeling at her side, he placed one tentative gauntlet on the small of her back, and he felt her body instinctively jump as spirit energy passed between them. Touching his fledgling was always odd; he could not actually feel her with his gauntlets on. He could take them off, if he wished, but the gauntlets were as much a part of Faith as was his helm and breastplate. To remove them would be like removing Marcelle's hands.

"Do you think He can hear the prayers of mages in the Fade?" Marcelle asked after a few moments, tilting her face up to look at him. A lock of blonde hair fell over the corner of an eye, and the tip of her nose was a bright red.

Faith replied solemnly, "my answer to you would be yes. If you believe that He is listening, and that He will respond, then he will. To believe otherwise is…" Faith struggled for a word that would not offend, but could not find one, "wrong." Faith was uncertain as to the existence of the being that mortals called "the Maker." Faith had learned of Him through the dreams of mortal, drawn to those dreams in particular because of their resonance to Faith's very being. They had faith in the Maker, and so Faith was naturally curious about the creature that inspired such feelings. Yet, even though he had found no proof of the Maker's existence during his own long lifetime, that did not stop Faith from _believing _that He was a possible force within both the mortal and metaphysical realms. It was against Faith's nature _not _to believe, for those things that strengthened and bolstered the soul, that reaffirmed one's own certainty in their own ability and destiny, were integral to Faith's existence. And so when Marcelle asked him if the Maker was listening, Faith was compelled to say yes. He would have unmade himself had he said no.

Marcelle let out a surprised chuckle at his response. "I am a terrible Andrastian." Marcelle sat straight, dragging the pennant into her lab. "I only pray to Him when I need something."

Faith considered this, framing her worry in the larger context of her self-doubt and Faith's own experiences with other mortal dreamers. "He understands. He must. He created you."

Marcelle smoothed her fingers over the stiff fabric of the charred banner. "You know," she said wistfully, "Sebastian said the same thing."

"Sebastian is a man of strong faith. He understands." Faith had respectfully kept his distance from Sebastian and his dreams, even though much of Faith's own understanding about the Maker came from men such as him. He had done it out of respect for his fledgling and for her affections, and it was a good exercise in discipline for him. Faith had felt compelled on many occasions to wander the pathways of the man's dreams, and bask in the warmth of his certainty and belief. As it was, all he had were the shadowy remnants, the echoes of Sebastian's dreams that were left over when he returned to the waking realm, and these provided very little comfort or charm.

"Not everything," Marcelle said with a shake of her head. She raised a hand to rub at her forehead, and then frowned when she realized she ash smeared on it. She wiped at it vigorously, and then gave up with a shrug, a mark of grey sliding into her hair line. "Oh, Faith, I should have known what Anders was up to. I…should have had less faith in him. I should not have trusted him as I did. Truly," she gritted her teeth, "I was convinced he was making a potion to separate himself from Justice, that he was stealing holy water from the Chantry's vaults as the last ingredient. I never thought…well." She shrugged. "That was the problem. I did not think."

"The fault lies not in your faith," chided Faith gently, "but in his manipulation of it." His tone took on a darker edge, and Faith stared out with narrowed eyes through his helm's visor at the destruction of Kirkwall's Chantry. "You may have been blinded, but Anders and his aggressive companion," Faith deliberately did not name the spirit, as such a spirit was likely to appear alongside them at the mention of its identity, "are just as much at fault." He saw her frown and clutch the banner between her hands. "You were made to be a creature of the present, fledgling. Do not dwell on the past." Faith pulled the banner from her hands and gently laid it back on the ground where she'd found it

Marcelle raised an eyebrow at his words, but they seemed to have the right effect, for her body softened against his. Her shoulders lost their rigid pose and her hands stopped tying themselves into knots. She flashed him a shy smile. "I am going to miss your platitudes, Faith."

Faith canted his head curiously. "I do not understand. What is there to miss?"

"Ah," Marcelle cast her eyes to her lap. "There is plenty to miss."

"You are being evasive."

"What do you remember about being in the mortal realm, Faith?" Marcelle flicked her eyes briefly up to his helmet before returning them downward again.

"Only heaviness." Faith's armor rattled as he shrugged, and even he had to admit that it seemed an odd contradiction to call living inside Marcelle's slender, robe-clad body as 'heavy.' The armor should have been heavier, but Faith felt at home in the Fade. In the mortal realm, he felt weighted down by blood, flesh, and bone. "And feelings."

"Were you angry?"

"I was."

"Did you kill someone because you were angry?"

Faith made a sound of disapproval. "You would not ask me such a question if you did not already know the answer to that."

"When I last awoke, I overhead the Knight-Guardian speaking to the other Templars. He said that you had killed a Templar, and by extension, that I had as well. He also said you threatened him and did him physical harm, which again by extension, means that I did. And now because he thinks you, no, _we,_" she amended, "are dangerous, he has invoked the Rite of Tranquility."

"No," Faith shook his head, "he was planning to take action against us no matter what happened. I saw it in his mind. It was - "

"- a trap," Marcelle finished. "And not the first of its kind we've come across. But we fell into it. We were not careful – and now we have given the Knight-Guardian an excuse to act," Marcelle pursed her lips together, and Faith had the distinct impression that she had become cross with him. "All our hard work, and we have only convinced him that he is right."

"Why do you say 'we?'" asked Faith. "It was I who did harm."

"_You_ killeda Templar, Faith. _You_ completely shattered his body. _You_," she shook her head, and licked at lips that were perpetually dry, "proved them right. _You_ showed them just how dangerous we can be. Yet, _I _was the means by which you could act. _I_ either gave you consent, in which case I have enabled your conduct. Or _you_ overwhelmed _me_, tricked _me_, in which case _I_ am too weak to handle magic safely. Neither circumstance is desirable in a mage, and thus we are to be made Tranquil."

"Is tranquility such a bad thing? I thought mortals strove to be more at peace?"

Marcelle flicked her eyes to him. "Ah, this is not the same sort of thing. Did my father never explain it to you?"

"Malcolm had mentioned the word before, but never in a context that I understood."

"Tranquility is an existence for mages that are too weak to handle the burden of magic. It can," she said slowly, "be an elected choice on the part of the mage, or it can be a decision made by the acting Knight-Commander and Senior Enchanter. It is a mercy to everyone. Tranquil do not dream, they are not connected to the Fade, and thus they face no dangers to themselves and pose no dangers to others from demons," she closed her eyes, "or spirits."

Faith bristled at her words. "I am _not _a danger! I am _not _a demon!"

"I know that!" Marcelle quickly took his helm between her hands, cupping it as she would his cheeks as spirit energy flared between her fingers, "but what reason have you given them to see you as something that is _good_? You did not cripple their belief, their faith, their conviction with your behavior. You only reinforced whatever thoughts about us they had. You _proved _them right."

"You were not there." Faith shimmered in indignation. "You would not know."

"You're right," Marcelle nodded, "I was not there. There is only darkness in my mind. But I would have been, if I'd had the choice. Tell me, why _did_ you possess me?" she asked sharply. "I do not recall asking for it."

Faith did not know why he'd done what he did. He hadn't even wanted to enter the mortal realm, his only compulsion had been to stay with Marcelle. And that was _still _his compulsion. They were bound, inexorably, by family and spirit.

"I would," Faith heard her say softly, "forbid you from doing so again, but that will not be necessary. You will not have another opportunity."

"Because of this Tranquility?" It was Faith's turn to put his hands on her cheeks. "I will not let that happen to you. You are good. You have done nothing to these men. The Templar who has you chained is a blind man with a heart full of fear, and by virtue the men who follow after him are also weak with their prideful conviction; if you let me, I will free you from them. Have faith in me that I can do this."

Marcelle gave him a horrified stare. "No!" She shook him. "You will do no such thing. You are my dearest friend, but I will not let you do this. Harming yourself at my expense is not worth the price of dreaming. Nothing is worth that. I would be Tranquil, or dead, long before I see you become like Justice."

"I have to protect you."

"And sometimes you have to protect me from yourself. Have faith, Faith. If it is anything that you have taught me, it is that things will turn out as they are supposed to," she flashed him an amused, if not sad, smile. "It worked when we were in Lowtown, it worked with Mother's death, and it worked with the Arishok. We may be brought low by fate, but no matter what happens, we must persist and be strong."

Faith felt her start in surprise as the air around them began to hum with energy. The Waking was in process, the purple lightning and sharp crackle of the thinning Veil evidence of the dream's passing. It was no wonder that mortals did not remember their time in the Fade, not when their leaving of it came so violently. The landscape began to splinter, the already ruined Chantry cracking beyond mortal comprehension. The pieces remained glued by the sheer force of Marcelle's will alone, and she remained glued together by the amalgamation of love, faith, and certainty that she had chosen to fill herself with.

"You need to go, Faith," she said, raising her voice over the sudden howling of ethereal winds. "You need to be as far away from here as you can. You cannot come with me."

"I will not _leave _you to the mercy of weak men."

"I am not at _anyone's _mercy, Faith!" Marcelle cast off his clinging hands. "This is my choice, and one that I accepted the possibility of long ago. They can take nothing from me that I am not prepared to give. I have lived a life of excitement and done good things with it, and I may yet continue to do good things. Perhaps," her voice became soft against the roaring, and Faith could not discern what she said.

"What did you say?"

"Perhaps," she sang out, "understanding can come of this."

Faith could say nothing to that. He could merely sit beside her in the ruins of the Chantry, resting his hand on hers until the Fade began to pitch and groan around them. The memory began to fragment and shatter with the rolling of thunder and the whistling of wind. Marcelle gripped his hand between hers and placed her lips to his gauntlet before releasing him. By the time Faith reached out to grab a hold of her once more, to anchor her and shelter her from the raging storm of fire and lightening and sound, she had picked up her skirts and was fleeing to the top of the Chantry steps and darting into the dark mouth of its interior.

A few moments after she disappeared out of sight, the memory collapsed entirely. The strands of Marcelle's will that were holding together the dream snapped when she left the Fade. Faith watched the Chantry evaporate into the barren landscape and green sky he was familiar with. The view of its beautifully carved exterior transformed into a view of the Black City hanging high in the distant clouds. The dark spires that rose atop the floating islands stared mockingly down at him, and served as a reminder of the darkness that lay within men's hearts.

For the first time, Faith was truly worried…and truly alone.

* * *

><p><em>You know, I think Sebastian arriving in time to stop the Templars is a bit like Tinkerbell. You know how Tinkerbell dies if you don't clap your hands? Clap your hands, readers, clap your hands, fast, fast, fast!<em>


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18 **

Sebastian arrived in Redcliffe just as evening was draping her long cloak over the town. The rooftops were painted blood red in the dying sunlight, and Sebastian had to squint his eyes against the glare of the setting sun in the horizon. Above him, the sky was beginning to turn a deep, rich purple with thin clouds of grey that stretched over the town like a skeleton's fingers. Beneath the ghostly hand, he rode his horse through the narrow streets of Redcliff. The only sound to be heard in Arl Teagan's sleepy fishing village was the sound of the palfrey's hooves against the stone and the ringing of the Chantry's bells.

The bells likely sounded the beginning of vespers, which was Sebastian's favorite service. However, he was not in Redcliffe to visit the Chantry and partake of the Maker's blessing. He was in Redcliffe to visit the Chantry on a mission of strict business _only. _ They had an apostate that he needed to…Sebastian didn't know what he needed to do to her. Kill her? Put her on trial? Rescue her? He would have to decide very shortly, because once he got into the Chantry, he would have to place all his cards on the table and pray that he had the best hand. The Templars, if they were there, would likely not willingly part with her, and Sebastian feared the possibility of violence and a part of him was well aware of the sudden lengths he had gone to for this woman. He knew it was absurd to shed blood to take her, and then to shed her blood himself, and so Sebastian had chosen to adopt a "wait and see" approach. He would make no decisions until he saw Marcelle Hawke with his own two eyes, for there yet remained the possibility that she should remain with the Templars.

He let the deep, sonorous chiming of the bells lead him to the Chantry. Each thrumming note pulled at invisible strings in his chest, guiding him down side streets and avenues until at last he stood in the Chantry's courtyard. The last ray of sunlight was shining down from the sky, stretching across the Chantry's door as if giving Sebastian some divine sign of the path he had to follow. Truly, it was a magnificent structure, and built in the style of the Orlesian Chantries in Val Royeaux. It was all gold and marble and arches, and it was not meant to be in a town such as Redcliffe. It was too large and ostentatious for the practical Ferelden people, which made Sebastian suspect an outside influence had been at work.

With hands that were less steady than he would have liked, Sebastian dismounted from his palfrey and tied the creature to one of the iron posts that had been driven into the ground to mark where the town of Redcliffe ended and the property of the Divine began. The horse nuzzled his hand in farewell, and Sebastian fondly stroked the creature's nose. "I'll be back," he murmured to the creature before turning to the Chantry's high stairwell and double doors.

Beyond just its glorious façade, the thing that Sebastian found odd about the Chantry was the lack of Templars that were out on duty. He remembered that in Kirkwall, at least two Templars were stationed on either side of the Chantry's doors at all times. It was peculiar that the Chantry at Redcliffe lacked the same thing, though the guards might just have been a consequence of Kirkwall's unnaturally strong Templar influence. The argument didn't hold water when Sebastian considered that Ferelden had become a Templar staging ground. He expected more. Were the Templars all inside at prayer, or had they abandoned the Chantry for the Circle Tower?

Something did not seem right about this situation. The sense of wrongness that had pervaded the Harriman estate was all over the grounds of the Chantry. Something foul was afoot, and he would know what it was.

Sebastian rested a hand on one of the great, golden door handles. They were shaped like spurts of flame, and they were colored as such in the dying rays of sunlight. He clenched his fist around one, and gently tugged on the door. The Chantry being still relatively new, the door did not make a sound as it opened, and Sebastian let out the breath he had not realized he'd been holding. He created a space wide enough for him to pass through sideways, and doing so, he rested his back against the door and gently shut it behind him.

It took several moments for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. There were no candles lit for the vespers service, nor was there incense burning. There was not even a Chanter reciting. This Chantry was as silent as a tomb, save for the sound of deep voices emanating from the raised platform at the back of the Chantry. Peering into the dark, Sebastian made out the shape of eight armored figures around the Sanctuary's altar.

One of the armored figures clapped his hands and a blue glow appeared in the darkness. Creeping closer, Sebastian saw that the glow was coming from a bowl that one of the men was holding.

The glow was more than enough light to tell Sebastian everything he needed to know about what he had just walked in on. His heart froze and his mouth dropped open, all sensation in his body disappearing. He felt cold, and sick, and wretched, as though he was seeing the Kirkwall Chantry disintegrate and hearing of his family's murder at the same time. There was pain, and loss, feelings of helplessness, and most of all… rage. Blind, all consuming rage that stole his breath and caused him to reach backwards for his bow.

All thoughts and doubts he had entered the Chantry with vanished at the sight of Marcelle Hawke chained to her knees on the floor. The largest Templar had her beautiful face captured in the claw of one hand, tilting it upwards while his other pressed a copy of the Chant of Light to her forehead.

Like a poorly tied bow string, Sebastian frayed and snapped. It had been _his _vengeance, but also _his _mercy to give. And there was something else, something deeper in his breast and his gut that roared and pulsed like a primal heartbeat: _Marcelle_ was _his. _

The first arrow he launched split the skull of the man who was holding the bowl in two. His head exploded at the impact of Sebastian's arrow, sending a shower of blood and brain matter across the faces of his brothers. Whatever it was that was glowing in that bowl, Sebastian was _not _going to let it be used on Hawke, and he took a deep breath of satisfaction when he heard the bowl fall to the floor and shatter. The blue glow spread across the floor of the Sanctuary, sparkling like a river of stars around the Templars and their mage captive. He had alerted the Templars to his presence, and their angry shouts filled the Chantry up to its domed ceiling.

Sebastian had another arrow nocked and was lining up a shot on the Templar who was administering rites to Marcelle as the other Templars assembled. He released the arrow, but one of the Templars had raised their shields in front of the man, and the arrow scraped off the metal and clattered to the floor.

He would return to the man with the book. For the moment, he had pressing concerns with the Templars who were mobilizing against him. His next arrow he saved for the first Templar to come down the stairs after him. He launched the arrow at the left stairwell just as the first Templar rounded the corner. He clattered backwards into his fellows, knocking them down to the ground with the force of the shot and the weight of his armor.

Sebastian used that opportunity to focus on the right stairwell, which two templars had just cleared. They rushed towards him, and Sebastian launched one arrow through the eye-slit of the first Templar and watched with grim satisfaction as the shaft sank fletch-deep. The second Templar was dispatched in a similar fashion, except instead of the bow sending the arrow into the man's eye, it was Sebastian's hand. The Templar had closed in on him and had slashed at him with his sword. Sebastian had side stepped the swipe, and spinning on the balls of his toes, jammed the arrow head into the man's visor. The arrow had sliced through eye, tissue, and brain and Sebastian had not let go until he'd felt the scrape of the arrowhead on bone.

As the Templar dropped dead to the floor, Sebastian was already lining up a shot that would kill the two templars on the left stairway. He pulled two arrows from his quiver, one he nocked, and the other he held between his last two fingers. He drew his bow back along its considerable reach and released the arrow. As the arrow flew to its home, he had flipped the arrow between his last two fingers along his knuckles and into place. It took him only a moment to line up his second shot, and he held his breath on the release. Within the span of seconds, both arrows punched through the Templars' breastplates, shattering their ribs and piercing their hearts.

There were only two Templars left – the one who with the book, and the one with the shield. The one with the book slapped Marcelle with the back of his gauntlet, and Sebastian watched her head snap backwards at the force of it. He then tossed the book at her and drew his sword from its scabbard. The Templar with the shield followed his movements, raising the crest of Andraste to protect them.

Sebastian narrowed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He could launch his entire quiver at the two men and not penetrate the defense of the tower shield. He would need a diversion, something that would unsettle and spook the men into separating and dropping their guard.

Sebastian crouched behind one of the pews, slipped to his belly, and crawled beneath two rows of them before reappearing. He carefully raised his eye over the edge of the pew, squinting into the gloom. Nightfall had fully descended on the town of Redcliffe, and the Chantry no longer had the last rays of the sun to illuminate its interior. Sebastian watched the two Templars hesitate in their steps, faltering at the foot of the stairs as they squinted into what appeared to be an empty room.

Sebastian slipped a hand into one of the pouches at his belt, feeling around for the small vial of amber powder that Varric had given many years ago.

"It makes for a great trick," the dwarf had explained. "Just shake it up a bit and throw it at the boys who are coming after you. It'll teach them a thing or two about charging blindly into an attack. If you know what I mean."

Sebastian plucked the thing from his pouch and observed it. He had never thought he'd have to resort to such tricks, but in this instance he decided to make the exception.

Shaking the small vial until it began to glow and spark orange, he stood and tossed it at the two Templars who stood huddling at the foot of the stairs. He drew himself down into a crouch and squeezed his eyes tightly. He reached one hand over his back for an arrow, holding his breath until he heard a very gentle _pop_. Hearing shouts of alarm and a cry of, "my eyes!" he stood. In one fluid motion he had drawn the arrow from his quiver, nocked it, and released it. The arrow soared through the air and straight into the open mouth of the Templar with the shield.

The Templar slumped forward, eyes glazed in death. The Templar behind him, the man who had been holding the book, scrabbled for the shield with eyes that were watering and half-closed. The shield fumbled from his hands and he went to pick it up again, unaware of how Sebastian anticipated his movements. The arrow the Prince of Starkhaven released was aimed straight for the space between the Templar's breastplate and his neck, which was exposed whenever the man stooped to grasp at the unwieldy tower shield. Not even the man's helmet saved him, as the gap was more than wide enough for the slender, cruelly barbed arrow.

The arrow pierced the Templar's throat, and his gauntlets scrabbled at his neck while Sebastian approached. The man tried to speak, but his throat had been too badly damaged by the arrowhead's impact. He ground out something unintelligible and raised his hands against the knife Sebastian pulled out. Blood welled from his lips as he continued to gurgle out words that sounded like, "Mercy, please."

"Unlike you," Sebastian hissed, "I, at least, am merciful." He grasped the arrow's shaft with one hand and ripped it from the man's body. He then drew the edge of his dagger across the Templar's throat and wiped it clean on the man's cloak.

With all the Templars dead around him, Sebastian slung his bow once more on his back and slipped his dagger into its pouch at his belt. He then ascended the stairs to the sanctuary. Two by two he climbed them, his feet soft against the thick red carpet.

In the center of the Sanctuary, just as he had seen her, knelt Marcelle. The book the Templar had thrown at her was in her lap, and her hands were folded demurely atop the open pages. Sebastian could not see her face, for her hair hung in golden waves about her cheeks and over her forehead. Around her sparkled the blue glowing substance, which Sebastian recognized as lyrium. It tinted the pale skin of her hands with its blue light and clung to the edges of her dress.

Maggots of desperate worry wormed through Sebastian's insides, eating away at his insides as he observed her from just over the railing. She looked unharmed, but she was unmoving, and in the silence of the Chantry he could not even hear her breathing. His tongue felt thick and his mouth went dry, but Sebastian mustered his courage. He strode towards her and using bow callused fingers he pushed the hair away from her face. There were bruises on her cheeks, and her lip had been split in several places from the vicious backhand of the now dead Templar, but the evidence of Templar brutality paled in comparison to the gentle serenity of her features. Her eyes were downcast, transfixed at the book in her lap. He cupped her cheek with his hand and tilted her face up to him with tip of his finger. Her eyes flicked up to his, the beautiful, mysterious blue that had enthralled him for many a night enveloping him once more.

It was with trembling fingers that he stroked away the hair from her forehead, and he could not stop the hiss of agony that escaped from his lips when he felt the skin there was marred. A circle of raised flesh, with tendrils of equally marred skin expanding out from its center…it was the Maker's symbol. It was His glorious sun.

Something inside him quivered and shook with the throes of a dying animal, bleeding and bleating as hope died. It clawed and screamed under the heavy weights of fear and regret that were crushing it alive. Marcelle was Tranquil; he had come too late. "Oh, Maker," he cried, "no, Maker no…" The outside world around him splintered and shattered away, leaving behind only the ugly red brand against Marcelle's pale skin. It was so easy to hide behind his larger, tanned fingers, but even when he covered it he would always know it was there. As would she.

Sebastian sunk to his knees in front of the stone-still Marcelle, his white knee and shin guards landing with a muffled _thunk _on the floor. He reached out his hands and cupped her cheeks, feeling the cool, smooth texture of his skin against. He tangled his fingers in the long hair that fell about her ears, the strands soft and warm against his skin. She felt exactly as he remembered, she _looked _exactly as he remembered (her brand not withstanding), but he knew that inside she was not the same women. "I am so sorry," he rasped, gently shaking her. "I am so sorry."

"Sebastian," Marcelle replied in the toneless speech of the Tranquil, her previously delicate and demure voice having turned into one long, constant stream of vowels and constants. "Why are you sorry?"

"I came too late," he whispered hoarsely, and hot tears prickled at the edges of his eyes as he saw her beautiful, serene face staring at him with mild disinterest, so very like and yet so _different _from her former self. "I could not save you from this."

"Did you not come to kill me?"

Sebastian's eyes widened and he shook his head vehemently to deny the original truth of her words. At one point, he would have killed her. Six months ago he thought he would have easily put an arrow in her forehead if he saw her. But what sort of justice would it be to execute a Tranquil? She was defenseless, and no more a harm to herself than to anyone else.

Time had tempered him, and he had slowly come to believe that a trial for her innocence was the correct course of action, with appropriate recompense if she was found guilty. But what sort of justice would it be to put a Tranquil on trial? She would only accept whatever decision the courts placed against her; her perfectly rational, focused mind understanding _why._

He opened his mouth to reply but nothing came out. Her features were emotionless, carved from the finest white marble that was smeared with dust and blood. She was not Marcelle Hawke who laughed and smiled and sang simple songs. She was not…anything. She was not grim or angry or sad, she simply _was. _She was void…empty, save for the cold logic of the Tranquil, and he could not bear the sight of her. Sebastian turned his face away from hers, staring off towards the stairs. He licked at his dry lips and tried to piece together something to say, but all that he could manage was another, "I'm sorry."

"Do not be sorry, Sebastian," she said placidly, "I am at peace. I am no danger to anyone. And no one is a danger to me."

"You were _never _a danger," Sebastian found himself arguing, turning his eyes back to look at her. He immediately regretted it, unable to stand the blankness of expression, the gentle lidded look of her eyes that should have been coupled with a gentle smile or a wicked smirk. He gathered Marcelle to his chest and rested his chin atop her head. Holding Marcelle, at least, was normal, for not even Tranquility could rob her of her soft, pliable curves. If she was stiffer than normal, Sebastian did not sense it, and he tangled his fingers in the hair at the base of her neck and breathed in the scent of her hair. "And I will never let danger befall you. Not again."

He turned his face upward, and above him loomed the statue of Andraste. She looked down at him with her guilelessly eyes, her beautiful face a mask of sorrow. Beyond her, illuminated in the moonlight, was a large window made of orange glass that depicted the same sun that was emblazoned on Marcelle's forehead.

"How could You do this?" Sebastian raised his voice to the Maker. "I walked the path You set before me, but You have only taken away the things that I love. What have I done to raise Your ire?"

But the Maker was silent in his Chantry. His only guide was the moonlight that fell from the window that illuminated Sebastian, Marcelle, and the book that pressed into Sebastian's midsection. Pulling away, he looked down and pushed Marcelle's hands away to read the verse. He recognized it from the Canticle of Threnodies, the story of how the Magisters had broken into the Golden City itself and perverted it. Man's pride had been man's undoing.

Sebastian thought he could feel no worse, and yet his heart slipped deeper into despair. Had he been prideful? Was this punishment for spurning the Maker's gifts? The Maker had taken Elthina and the Chantry from Sebastian, freeing him for a life of untold possibilities beside the Viscountess of Kirkwall. Yet, what had Sebastian done? He had waged war against the Viscountess, and now when he had come to the tipping point where his pity and bottled love swelled over his anger at her, he could _not _have her. She had slipped through his fingers like sand, made Tranquil, and doomed to never again feel.

But she was alive, at least. The Maker had not taken her from him completely. Even if she could not feel, she could still breathe, and that was a mercy in and of itself. Sebastian would take this small gift from the Maker, before He decided to change his mind.

"I have been a fool," Sebastian cried to the sympathetic Andraste. "I have been a damned fool."

Andraste neither agreed nor disagreed; she simply gave him her sad stare.

He released Marcelle and scrubbed his hands over his face to brush away his bitter tears. "I am going to," he said in a deceptively steady voice, "free you from this place, Marcelle."

Marcelle blinked at him. "Are you going to return me to the Circle Tower? That is where I would like to go."

"No," Sebastian shook his head. "I will not risk anything else befalling you. I am taking you back to Starkhaven with me. That is where you belong."

"I do not belong in Starkhaven," she disagreed in her flat, sweet voice. "There is no place for Tranquils there."

"I am in Starkhaven. And you belong with me. Thus," he carefully patted his hands down her body, his hands feeling along her shoulders, down her arms, and then along her ribs and sides for injures, "you belong in Starkhaven. Are you injured, Marcelle?" He did not know if she, as a Tranquil, could still feel pain.

"No," she said quietly.

"Can you move?" Sebastian asked.

"No." In a matter-of-fact movement, she lifted her hand and displayed the thick manacle around her wrist. "I am bound by hand and foot. The Knight-Guardian had the key."

"Is he here?"

"The Knight-Guardian was the man who made me Tranquil," she explained.

"The man with the book?"

Marcelle nodded her head.

Sebastian rose swiftly to his feet and padded back the way he had come. He found the Templar with the slit throat and fished around in the folds of the man's skirt for a key. His fingers found a small pouch, which contained the key he was after. He darted back up the stairs and to Marcelle's side, freeing her from her shackles and helping her to stand.

"Your arrows," Marcelle said, pointing to the corpses littering the Chantry's floor, "should not be left behind."

Sebastian had almost forgotten about them, and realized the logic of her statement. The arrows could lead the Templars back to Starkhaven, to him, for they bore fletching in the colors of his house. He quickly descended the Sanctuary and moved around the darkened interior of the Chantry, gathering his arrows so that there was no evidence left behind of his coming. Looking up into the gloom, he saw that Marcelle had joined him in the task, taking care of the Templars who had fallen at the left stairwell. He saw her struggle pulling out the arrows, and was surprised when she simply snapped off the fletching and carefully stored them within a pocket in her robe.

When Marcelle was done she came to stand beside Sebastian, her hands folded neatly in front of her as she watched him draw out the last of his arrows. He rose and turned to face her, raising an eyebrow in curiosity as she proffered a bleeding hand to him.

"I cut myself when breaking a fletching," she said, "I thought you might wish to know."

"Marcelle," he chided gently, ripping fabric from one of her sleeves to act as a binding for the wound, "you need to be more careful."

"I did not intend for the wood to break at such an angle," she explained.

Sebastian only sighed as he bound her bleeding hand. The cut was not deep, but it likely stung. He would see to it when they were safely away. He wrapped a careful arm around her shoulders and led her towards the door. "We should be on our way."

As they exited the Chantry and made their way to his horse, Sebastian was entertaining fantasies about the Tranquil Marcelle. When they returned to Starkhaven, he would ensconce her in the palace, in chambers that were adjacent to his own. He would give her the freedom and the luxury that she needed to live out the rest of her days in a peaceful, safe existence. He was not sure what exactly Tranquil did, other than work with lyrium and sell wares, but if their minds were as focused and precise as was rumored, perhaps he would task her with the redesign of his castle and, if she enjoyed the work, expansions within his city.

Sebastian eased Marcelle up onto the back of the chestnut palfrey that the Warden Commander had given him. He was mindful of her injured hand, and was shocked to see that she was using it to hold her weight as she climbed up. He was ready to scold her, but he was not sure how to scold someone who did not know any better.

Before clambering onto the horse's back to join her, Sebastian reached into one of his saddlebags and pulled out the cloak he had packed. Made of thick, navy wool, he had brought it to stay warm should Ferelden's weather turn inclement. Having no need of it as the night was pleasantly cool he offered it to the Viscountess of Kirkwall.

Marcelle took the cloak and wrapped it about her shoulders. When Sebastian mounted behind her, he pulled the hood of the cloak up over the top of her head, dragging it down over the brand as far as he could manage. "For your protection," he said, "and mine."

Slipping his arms below hers and nestling her body between the juncture of his thighs, Sebastian clicked his tongue at the palfrey and nudged its side with his heels. As it set off into a lazy trot through the narrow alleys of Redcliffe, he felt Marcelle slowly relax and rest her back against his chest. Strands of her hair were plucked out of her cloak by the wind, tickling Sebastian's nose and cheeks as he pushed the horse into a swifter pace when they were out on the safety of the West Road. It was only a matter of minutes before Redcliffe disappeared into the night, and they were drowned in the inky, velvet hair of night. Above them were the stars, around them were the shapeless forms of trees, and between them was the warmth of their bodies.

They rode like that for many miles and stopped only when they had to. Sebastian pushed them at a grueling pace, ready to leave Ferelden and the Templars behind. The riding nearly killed his horse, but they arrived in Amaranthine in half the time it took for Sebastian to reach Redcliffe. The Warden Commander inquired as to the success of his journey, but all Sebastian had replied was that he had come too late. She had looked upon him with pity and touched his cheek with the back of her gauntlet. It was her version of an apology, and Sebastian barely managed to swallow it.

Sebastian was thankful that his ship was ready to depart the day after he arrived in Amaranthine. He led Marcelle up the gangplank and into his private quarters, pointedly avoiding the curious eyes of his crew and guardsmen. Marcelle said nothing as he paraded her around, and she kept the cloak he had given her firmly over her head and shoulders. She and the cloak were inseparable, though Sebastian guessed she wore it more for his sake than hers. And he was grateful for it; since to see that brand upon her forehead reminded him only of his shame.

When they arrived in Starkhaven Palace, their journey having taken them up the Minanter, Sebastian made his dreams reality. He installed Marcelle into the suite of chambers reserved for the Princess of Starkhaven, and though they never married and she held no formal title, Sebastian still considered her as such. He cared for her, as he had cared for her in Kirkwall, and those feelings did not diminish with age. Though he was pressed to marry and offered suits, he had refused them all. His love for Marcelle could only ever be pure; untouched by the flesh but consecrated totally in spirit by the Maker, for Sebastian was convinced that even the Tranquil had a place by His side. He loved her for many years, but he was not alone in his love.

Her friends came to visit her. One by one they came to visit her, to try and coax out the old Marcelle. Isabela played card games and took her shirt off, Merrill cast spells and consulted the Fade, Aveline merely sat by her side and said nothing. Varric told her amusing stories to which Marcelle did not laugh (though Varric soon had taught her the art of false laughter, which was a terrible thing coming out of the mouth of a Tranquil), and Fenris showed her how to wield a sword so that she would not be defenseless. The only one who did not come to see her was Carver, and he had written to Sebastian proclaiming that whoever it was that Sebastian had in Starkhaven was not his sister. His sister had died, and it was Sebastian's fault. Anders did not dare enter Starkhaven, but Sebastian recognized his efforts when he saw pages of a certain manifesto burning in the fireplace (and he could not stop his laughter upon hearing that it had been Marcelle who had so innocently put them there. "The fire needed to be tended."). Yet, one by one, each of her friends slowly faded away back the way they had come. Slowly, they stopped visiting altogether, and it just became Sebastian and Marcelle once more.

And when it was that she died, on an afternoon where the trees were fading from green to gold, she told him that she loved him too. He had touched her cold, wrinkled cheek with age-softened fingertips, and mourned not only a lifetime's love, but also a lifetime's regret. She had been everything; and now he was nothing.

He buried her alongside his family, tucking her body into a beautiful tomb of white marble inside the Vael mausoleum. Upon the lid of her tomb he had engraved a verse from the Canticle of Transfigurations, for there was no more a fitting prayer for such a woman:

_Many are those who wander in sin,__  
><em>_Despairing that they are lost forever,__  
><em>_But the one who repents, who has faith__  
><em>_Unshaken by the darkness of the world,__  
><em>_And boasts not, nor gloats__  
><em>_Over the misfortunes of the weak, but takes delight__  
><em>_In the Maker's law and creations, she shall know__  
><em>_The peace of the Maker's benediction.__  
><em>_The Light shall lead her safely__  
><em>_Through the paths of this world, and into the next.__  
><em>_For she who trusts in the Maker, fire is her water.__  
><em>_As the moth sees light and goes toward flame,__  
><em>_She should see fire and go towards Light.__  
><em>_The Veil holds no uncertainty for her,__  
><em>_And she will know no fear of death, for the Maker__  
><em>_Shall be her beacon and her shield, her foundation and her sword._

Sebastian reigned only for a few years more, before age and sickness began to erode at his health. He eventually abdicated the throne in favor of a distant cousin, and used his last few months to reflect upon the long life he had lived and the things he had seen. His last few days of life were spent in a tenebrous haze, a gloomy half-life of shallow breathing and blindness. Alone in his chambers, no longer important because he was not a prince, he died.

And she was waiting for him.

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><p><em>THE END.<em>

_(Watch this space tomorrow.)_


	19. Chapter 19

**Worth**

_You may wonder why I said Chapter 18 was "the end," and yet told you to stay tuned for Chapter 19. Well, the truth is that Chapter 19 is the proper continuation of the story, and Chapter 18 was a foray into an alternate ending. I chose to post the alternate ending there, rather than at the end of the story, for the simple reason that in a month or two's time, the AU ending won't have the same emotional impact (plus it fits chronologically this way). The threat and the build up would be missing from the reading experience. _

_And so, my wonderful readers, I apologize, and I bring you what really happened that night in the Chantry. Cast your mind back to entering Redcliffe, and Sebastian first coming upon the sight of Marcelle on the Sanctuary, for it is there that we begin our tale: with Sebastian being an utter, utter BAMF. _

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><p><strong>Chapter 19<strong>

The first arrow he launched split the skull of the man who was holding the bowl in two. His head exploded at the impact of Sebastian's arrow, sending a shower of blood and brain matter across the faces of his brothers. Whatever it was that was glowing in that bowl, Sebastian was _not _going to let it be used on Hawke, and he took a deep breath of satisfaction when he heard the bowl fall to the floor and shatter. The blue glow spread across the floor of the Sanctuary, sparkling like a river of stars around the Templars and their mage captive. He had alerted the Templars to his presence, and their angry shouts filled the Chantry up to its domed ceiling.

Sebastian had another arrow nocked and was lining up a shot on the Templar who was administering rites to Marcelle as the other Templars assembled. He released the arrow, but one of the Templars had raised their shields in front of the man, and the arrow scraped off the metal and clattered to the floor.

He would return to the man with the book. For the moment, he had pressing concerns with the Templars who were mobilizing against him. His next arrow he saved for the first Templar to come down the stairs after him. He launched the arrow at the left stairwell just as the first Templar rounded the corner. He clattered backwards into his fellows, knocking them down to the ground with the force of the shot and the weight of his armor.

Sebastian used that opportunity to focus on the right stairwell, which two templars had just cleared. They rushed towards him, and Sebastian launched one arrow through the eye-slit of the first Templar and watched with grim satisfaction as the shaft sank fletch-deep. The second Templar was dispatched in a similar fashion, except instead of the bow sending the arrow into the man's eye, it was Sebastian's hand. The Templar had closed in on him and had slashed at him with his sword. Sebastian had side stepped the swipe, and spinning on the balls of his toes, jammed the arrow head into the man's visor. The arrow had sliced through eye, tissue, and brain and Sebastian had not let go until he'd felt the scrape of the arrowhead on bone.

As the Templar dropped dead to the floor, Sebastian was already lining up a shot that would kill the two templars on the left stairway. He pulled two arrows from his quiver, one he nocked, and the other he held between his last two fingers. He drew his bow back along its considerable reach and released the arrow. As the arrow flew to its home, he had flipped the arrow between his last two fingers along his knuckles and into place. It took him only a moment to line up his second shot, and he held his breath on the release. Within the span of seconds, both arrows punched through the Templars' breastplates, shattering their ribs and piercing their hearts.

There were only two Templars left – the one who with the book, and the one with the shield. The one with the book slapped Marcelle with the back of his gauntlet, and Sebastian watched her head snap backwards at the force of it. He then tossed the book at her and drew his sword from its scabbard. The Templar with the shield followed his movements, raising the crest of Andraste to protect them.

Sebastian narrowed his eyes and inhaled deeply. He could launch his entire quiver at the two men and not penetrate the defense of the tower shield. He would need a diversion, something that would unsettle and spook the men into separating and dropping their guard.

Sebastian crouched behind one of the pews, slipped to his belly, and crawled beneath two rows of them before reappearing. He carefully raised his eye over the edge of the pew, squinting into the gloom. Nightfall had fully descended on the town of Redcliffe, and the Chantry no longer had the last rays of the sun to illuminate its interior. Sebastian watched the two Templars hesitate in their steps, faltering at the foot of the stairs as they squinted into what appeared to be an empty room.

Sebastian slipped a hand into one of the pouches at his belt, feeling around for the small vial of amber powder that Varric had given many years ago.

"It makes for a great trick," the dwarf had explained. "Just shake it up a bit and throw it at the boys who are coming after you. It'll teach them a thing or two about charging blindly into an attack. If you know what I mean."

Sebastian plucked the thing from his pouch and observed it. He had never thought he'd have to resort to such tricks, but in this instance he decided to make the exception.

Shaking the small vial until it began to glow and spark orange, he stood and tossed it at the two Templars who stood huddling at the foot of the stairs. He drew himself down into a crouch and squeezed his eyes tightly. He reached one hand over his back for an arrow, holding his breath until he heard a very gentle _pop_. Hearing shouts of alarm and a cry of, "my eyes!" he stood. In one fluid motion he had drawn the arrow from his quiver, nocked it, and released it. The arrow soared through the air and straight into the open mouth of the Templar with the shield.

The Templar slumped forward, eyes glazed in death. The Templar behind him, the man who had been holding the book, scrabbled for the shield with eyes that were watering and half-closed. The shield fumbled from his hands and he went to pick it up again, unaware of how Sebastian anticipated his movements. The arrow the Prince of Starkhaven released was aimed straight for the space between the Templar's breastplate and his neck, which was exposed whenever the man stooped to grasp at the unwieldy tower shield. Not even the man's helmet saved him, as the gap was more than wide enough for the slender, cruelly barbed arrow.

The arrow pierced the Templar's throat, and his gauntlets scrabbled at his neck while Sebastian approached. The man tried to speak, but his throat had been too badly damaged by the arrowhead's impact. He ground out something unintelligible and raised his hands against the knife Sebastian pulled out. Blood welled from his lips as he continued to gurgle out words that sounded like, "Mercy, please."

"Unlike you," Sebastian hissed, "I, at least, am merciful." He grasped the arrow's shaft with one hand and ripped it from the man's body. He then drew the edge of his dagger across the Templar's throat and wiped it clean on the man's cloak.

With all the Templars dead around him, Sebastian slung his bow once more on his back and slipped his dagger into its pouch at his belt. He then ascended the stairs to the Sanctuary. Two by two he climbed them, his feet soft against the thick red rug that trailed down the stairs like a river of sacrificial blood.

In the center of the Sanctuary, just as he had seen her, knelt Marcelle. The book the Templar had thrown at her was in her lap, and her hands were folded demurely atop the open pages. Sebastian could not see her face, for her hair hung in golden waves about her cheeks and over her forehead. Around her sparkled the blue glowing substance, which Sebastian recognized as lyrium. It tinted the pale skin of her hands with its blue light and clung to the edges of her dress.

Maggots of desperate worry wormed through Sebastian's insides, eating away at him as he observed her from just over the railing. She looked unharmed, but she was unmoving, and in the silence of the Chantry he could not even hear her breathing. His tongue felt thick and his mouth went dry, but Sebastian mustered his courage. He strode towards her and using bow callused fingers he pushed the hair away from her face. There were bruises on her cheeks, and her lip had been split in several places from the vicious backhand of the now dead Templar, but the evidence of Templar brutality paled in comparison to the gentle serenity of her features. Her eyes were downcast, transfixed at the book in her lap, and her lips were parted as she took in deep, even breaths. She looked as though she was waiting for something; her slender form relaxed and ready for whatever fate the Maker sought to give her.

He tilted her face up to him with tip of his finger. Her eyes flicked up to his, the beautiful, mysterious blue that had enthralled him for many a quiet night enveloping him once more. He saw her expression change into one of surprise when she recognized his face, her bloody lips parting and her eyes widening. She opened her mouth to speak but he shook his head, shushing her. Sebastian needed silence in order to _decide_. He had just slaughtered a small contingent of Templars to get to her, and now she was _his. _But he did not know what to do with her. Seeing her beautiful face staring up at him in a mixture of earnest delight and yet uneasy dread made Sebastian, of all things, sad. This woman used to look at him with trust and understanding, but he only saw uncertainty now. She thought he had come to kill her.

And it was then that he knew that her death would not bring him peace.

He could not lose her; not again.

He let his fingers glide over her features, trailing his fingertips over the curves of her cheekbones and over the delicate arches of her eyebrows before he cupped her cheek gently with his hand. Her look of fear evaporated into one of relief, and a slow, loving smile spread across her features.

"Sebastian," he heard her whisper hoarsely, and she raised a shackled hand to cover his, "they said that Tranquility was the death of dreams, but I think that they were wrong, for how else you can be here?" Her uncertainty had turned into wonderment; disbelief at his kindness. And this too pained Sebastian.

"You do not dream," he replied. "I came to find you." He smiled tenderly. "And so I have."

As Marcelle closed her eyes and pressed herself into his touch, Sebastian slowly knelt down in front of her. Her cheek was pale and cold beneath his fingertips, but it was as soft as he remembered. He pulled the book from her lap and casually tossed it onto the floor, allowing the perfectly white pages to soak up the sparkling blue lyrium that surrounded them. As he gathered her into his arms, and felt her slender limbs wrap around him, he was instantly aware that it was not only her skin that was soft, but that _all _of Marcelle was. She was yielding and pliable…the curves hallmarking her as a woman melding perfectly against Sebastian's own hardened, armor-clad frame.

He buried his nose in her hair and shut his eyes, taking a few moments to steady a heart that had begun to beat wildly out of rhythm. He was overwhelmed by feeling. The rage that had filled the void in him had dissipated, and now the void was being filled with _her. _Parts of Sebastian wanted to rail against his sudden weakness, but these parts were stifled under the fierce embrace Marcelle wrapped him in. Her long arms were wound tightly around him, and he could feel her fingers digging into leather straps and poking into his wool padding below. He clung to her just as desperately. Perhaps even more so. He had nearly missed the chance to participate in such a simple embrace again; if he had been but one minute late, she would have been made Tranquil.

It was as though the Maker himself had intervened, stalling the passing of time so Sebastian could arrive and have a second chance to walk the path that He had set before him. Sebastian would not stray from it again. He would take the presented opportunity as far as the Maker would allow him.

When thoughts of Tranquility passed into Sebastian's mind, he instantly became aware of the fact that Marcelle was still very much in danger. More Templars could come, and if they overwhelmed him, they could still have their way with her. While Sebastian agreed that Tranquility was a mercy, not a punishment, he could find no reason why Marcelle needed it to be done to her. There was not an ounce of evil in the woman in his arms.

Pulling back to stare into her face, Sebastian considered their next course of action. They would need to leave the Chantry as quick as possible and be out of Redcliffe before midnight. Any later, and they ran the risk of still being on the road when the sun came up.

"Are you well enough to move?" Sebastian asked. Seeing Marcelle nod, Sebastian placed his hands on her shoulders and slowly moved them downwards over her arms, and then along her ribs and sides as he checked her for injuries and tenderness. He felt alarm flare in his breast when he saw her wince when he touched her right side. "Are you hurt?"

"Only a little," she said with a shake of her head. "But do not worry about that; I will sort it out when I am myself again. And no, I cannot move." With an embarrassed chuckle she lifted her hand and gently wiggled it from side to side. The manacle and chain around her wrist clattered together at the motion. "I am well and truly chained. The Knight-Guardian, the one who hit me, he has the key," Marcelle explained. "And…" she ventured more hesitantly, "my phylactery."

Sebastian looked at her sharply. "Your…phylactery?"

"If…" she licked her lips, dipping her tongue into the ripped flesh, "if you will let me explain, I will do so." Marcelle's eyes were wide and she took a deep breath, filling her lungs with air before she launched into a hurried explanation. She opened her mouth to give it, but was promptly silenced by the press of a finger against her lips.

"Later," Sebastian said, "when you are no longer in danger."

Marcelle could only nod grimly.

"Just the key," Sebastian looked over his shoulder to the darkened interior of the Chantry, "and the phylactery?"

"The phylactery may be in the Knight-Guardian's quarters." She frowned, "I…do not think he would wear it around his neck. He did not seem like a man to tempt fate."

"Do you know where his quarters are?"

"Somewhere to the right; behind one of the tapestries, I think." Marcelle cast her eyes towards her description, "it is…hard to remember small details."

"Then don't," Sebastian soothed. "I will return when I have them both." He touched Marcelle's cheek again, marveling that she was real and alive and safe, before he stood. In the quiet darkness, Sebastian padded back the way he had come. His head and feet felt light, as though he was walking atop the clouds. A weight that he had not even realized he had been carrying was somehow lifted. Every beat of Sebastian's heart sang,_ "She's mine._" It was a contradiction, for the thought was both sobering and yet uplifting.

Sebastian found the Knight-Guardian exactly where he'd left him: slumped at the bottom of the staircase. It was a messy business fishing around the man's bloodstained body for the ring of keys he kept in a leather pouch at his belt, and Sebastian's fingertips were smeared red with the man's blood before he was done. All Sebastian could do was wipe them on the back of the man's cloak, using what little fabric left that was still dry. Sebastian pushed the man's body forward, and reached his hand behind the man's neck and under his breastplate to feel for the phylactery that Marcelle spoke of, but he encountered no chain or necklace. Marcelle had been right; he probably kept it out of sight and away from her.

He gingerly crept his way over to the tapestry that Marcelle had mentioned, and pulling it back revealed a door waiting on the other side. It was locked, but Sebastian had the Knight-Guardian's keys in hand and it did not take him long to find the proper key. The door did not make a sound as it pushed open, and Sebastian stepped into a small, stone room that was completely devoid of light. He had to pull the tapestry from the wall in order to see into it, though he was not surprised that moonlight revealed nothing out of the ordinary. There was a bookcase, a desk, and a large chair; that was all. It was obvious that the Knight-Guardian kept very few possessions.

The bookcase provided very little in the ways of information, being merely filled with different, aged copies of the Chant of Light and the Templars' Code, and so Sebastian started with the desk. There were stacks of paper atop it, as well as a half-written message, but rifling through these, Sebastian only discovered food requisitions and regulations for a Redcliffe curfew. When he was satisfied that he had missed nothing, he moved onto the desk drawers. These were also locked, but just as the door, they were easy prey to the master key. Sebastian methodically probed his way through the drawers, and it was not until he reached the third drawer on the bottom left that he found what he was looking for: a small, black box and a leather bound journal. The journal Sebastian did not read because he feared for time, but the box Sebastian opened.

There, in the box's center, was a beautifully carved vial made of the clearest crystal. Inside it shimmered a bright red substance that he could only guess was Marcelle's blood. For such a barbaric use of blood magic – for Sebastian could think of no other word to describe what the taking of blood and using it against a mage was – it was quite pretty. He imagined that if the process was not quite so gruesome, that the delicate little pendant on its silver chain would be fashionable. Almost as soon as that thought crossed Sebastian's mind, he became disgusted with himself. He had spent far too long in the Starkhaven court. There was nothing beautiful about blood magic; it was an intrinsically evil thing no matter _who _used it. Blood and magic were two things he associated with the men who had put Andraste to death. He was having a hard time reconciling that the men who swore themselves to Andraste's service would resort to both means to do their jobs.

Sebastian shut the drawers and then the door, and stepped reverently over the tapestry he had pulled from the wall. With the box in his hand and the journal stuffed underneath his belt, Sebastian went to collect his arrows. As he stooped over the bodies of the fallen Templars, he let his eyes wander to where Marcelle sat on the Sanctuary. She was shining silver in the moonlight, eclipsing even the golden statues of Andraste that rose high above her. He only took his eyes from her when he had to snap an arrow's fletching off because the arrow had pierced too deeply into the flesh to be removed.

Sebastian, despite his temper, was a prudent man. He knew that it was only a matter of time before the Templars decided to investigate the murders here, and any evidence left behind could be enough to incriminate him of his misdeeds. If they found Sebastian, he would not deny their claims (because lying was a sin, and killing a man within the Maker's holy sanctum an even larger one), though Sebastian vowed he would make it very difficult for them to associate him with the crime. For his own personal penance, however, Sebastian swore that he would make amends to the Maker by building a hundred Chantries in His name. And he made this promise when he pulled the last of his arrows from the dead Templars, sending a stream of blood into the air at the force of his pull.

Returning to Marcelle, Sebastian crouched once more in front of her. He opened the box that contained her phylactery, showing her the means by which she had been bound and captured. When Marcelle made no move to touch it, he plucked the chain from the box and dangled it in the air in front of her nose, before capturing her palm and placing the phylactery within it. He closed her hands around it, squeezing her fingers gently, before releasing her. "I will not make the choice for you," he said before slipping the key into the manacles around her hands, "because I know you will do the right thing." Helping her pry the metal off from around her wrist, he moved on hands and knees to her side, delicately lifting the edge of her soiled and tattered robe to release her feet from their shackles. Her boots were caked in mud, and he had been right to think that the Templars had plucked her from her garden in Lothering.

Done with freeing her, he placed the key on the floor beside her foot and stood, offering her his hand. She reached out to grab it, and he pulled her from the floor with a strong arm. He staggered back a few feet as Marcelle lost balance and flopped bonelessly against him. She propped her chin on his shoulder as her legs struggled to support her weight.

"Will you be able to walk?"

"Give me a moment," she whispered, her hand splayed out against his chest, "the room is moving in all different directions…"

He shook his head; he would find some way to assuage her damaged pride later. "There's no time." With a small groan of protest from Marcelle, Sebastian placed an arm around her waist and then sunk into a crouch as he brought his other arm beneath her knees. He lifted her with ease and found the weight of her body cradled in his arms to be more than pleasant. Sebastian felt her settle against his chest, her arms wrapping around his neck to anchor her against his body. He could feel the cold press of the phylactery in her hand against the skin of his neck. It was so cold it was almost burning.

Striding down the stairs and down the rows of pews, Sebastian made his way to the door. He placed his back against it, mindful of the way Marcelle's legs might swing and clatter into the adjacent door if he was not careful. As he pushed the door open, a strange feeling made itself manifest in his gut: it was a sense of longing. How many times had Sebastian seen men carry women out of the Chantry? More times than he could remember. Not only had Sebastian seen many couples married in the sight of the Maker in Kirkwall do it, but on a more personal note, he had also seen both of his brothers pick up their wives after their marriage ceremonies and carry them from Starkhaven's dimly lit Chantry out into the gloriously warm afternoon sunlight.

It was oddly surreal to him that he should be fleeing the Chantry under the cover of night carrying a beautiful woman in his arms, and yet not be married to her.

"I have never been carried before," Marcelle said in a quiet voice full of amazement, her forehead resting against Sebastian's chin and scratching against his stubble. "I've always walked…" Her thumb stroked the nape of Sebastian's neck, her fingers gliding against the surprising softness of his hair.

"This may not be the last time," Sebastian murmured absently, too focused on scanning the perimeter of the courtyard for Templars and intruders.

She hummed something indecipherable, and Sebastian felt her breath warm and hot against the night air on his jaw.

The Chantry courtyard was empty in the moonlight, but that did not Sebastian from hurrying his way to his horse. He could hear the echoes of laughter and merriment from somewhere in the town, likely emanating from a nearby tavern and not from a band of roving Templars. But it was better to be safe than sorry.

His horse greeted them with a loud grunt and a shake of its head.

"I said I would return," he told the beast.

The horse merely grunted again and pawed at the ground with its hoof.

Marcelle chuckled, the sound of her laughter vibrating from her chest and into his.

"I passed through a town not more than a four or five hour ride east of here." Sebastian tilted his head down to look at the woman in his arms. "Will you be all right riding that long?"

"I will be fine once the nullifying effects of the Templars wear off." She cast her eyes towards the Chantry's open door. "You know…you killed the Knight-Guardian, hand of the Knight-Vigilant."

Sebastian pursed his lips. "In the Maker's eyes, wrongdoers bear no titles. All men are the same."

Marcelle opened her mouth to argue, but Sebastian did not give her the opportunity to speak. He lowered her legs to the ground and stepped behind her, forcing her against the horse's side as he placed his hands on her waist to steady her. She swayed in his arms, but reached for the saddle horn and clung to it. Lifting her up onto the saddle was not a graceful affair, and he had been forced to place his hands on the curves of her rear in order to seat her properly.

Before clambering onto the horse's back to join her, Sebastian reached into one of his saddlebags and pulled out the cloak he had packed. Made of thick, navy wool, he had brought it to stay warm should Ferelden's weather turn inclement. Having no need of it as the night was pleasantly cool, he offered it to the Viscountess of Kirkwall.

Marcelle took the cloak with a grateful smile and wrapped it about her shoulders. When Sebastian mounted behind her, he pulled the hood of the cloak up over the top of her head. "For your protection," he said, "and mine."

Slipping his arms below hers and nestling her body between the juncture of his thighs, Sebastian clicked his tongue at the palfrey and nudged its side with his heels. As it set off into a lazy trot through the narrow alleys of Redcliffe, he felt Marcelle slowly relax and rest her back against his chest. Strands of her hair were plucked out of her cloak by the wind, tickling Sebastian's nose and cheeks as he pushed the horse into a swifter pace when they were out on the safety of the West Road.

It was only a matter of minutes before Redcliffe disappeared into the night, and they were drowned in the inky, velvet hair of night. Above them were the stars, around them were the shapeless forms of trees, and between them was the warmth of their bodies.

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><p><em>Also, did I mention that there is art for this chapter? Because there is! The two pieces done by the fabulous Lady Winde can be seen in my profile. Go check them out and tell her how much you love them...and tell her how much you want to see MORE <em>Worth _fan art!_

_And before we close, I'm going to apologize again to scaring my readers! Things are as fluffy as freshly whipped cream from here on out - and about as naughty as the children who stick their fingers in that cream. Rejoice, for there is much more to come!_


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

It was the first time in a long time that Marcelle Hawke had dreamed.

Without her worries focusing her attention on the past, Marcelle was given the freedom to simply _be. _Her mind, surprisingly relaxed, unwound itself like a spool of thread and stitched together a tapestry from dirt and hoof beats. It had dressed an elated, eager Faith in a tabard of red and conjured a chair below his legs. It had also summoned him a flower for his hand, and a stylish feather for his helm. And it had also rendered him silent; which Marcelle was thankful for, as she did not yet have the words to describe to him what had happened. She did not quite believe it herself – thought that it was, perhaps, a dream within a dream, and a curious, carefree thought bubbled into her mind: what if this was her reality, and she had simply woken up?

But that was nonsense.

Marcelle remembered what it was like to dream, and what it was like simply to remember. Dreams were like swimming, or dancing in thick woolen socks – everything felt muted and dull, because it was all an illusion. T'was the curse of magic: she was cognizant of the dream itself, aware that she was dreaming, and quite capable of altering or leaving it if she chose so – but she did not. She was enjoying this dream in all its absurd glory. She was back in Kirkwall, at her estate, and in the middle of tea. Her home was exactly as it should have been in terms of its smells and style – there were ornate wooden beams overhead and lacy gauze covering the windows, and the house had the delightful aroma of fresh baked bread (and wet dog, but that could not be helped). What was curious about the dream was the company.

Seated at the grey, circular table that she and her mother had spent several weeks restoring and varnishing, was Marcelle herself, Leandra Hawke, Knight Commander Meredith, First Enchanter Orsino, the Arishok, Seneschal Bran, and Faith. Faith was busy peering at Leandra, who was admiring and commenting on the new tablecloth that Marcelle had bought (in reality, Marcelle would never have purchased snow white linens emblazoned with her family's crest, but the dream dictated that this was so, and so it was). Marcelle was nodding her head and accepting her mother's praise as she busily served tea from an ornate silver pot that had a spout shaped like a hawk's head and a handle that flared out like a wing. The tea that came out was as red as her crest – as red as blood.

Even while seated, the Arishok was large enough to disturb the low hanging candelabra above them, and as he turned his head to address Knight Commander Meredith's compliments as to his personal discipline, his horns knocked one of the candles out of its holder. Before the candle hit the table, the First Enchanter turned it into a butterfly, which then proceeded to flutter its wings against Bran's face and cause the Seneschal to jump from his chair and wave the thing away with frantic movements of his wrist.

Such a gathering of people, at least in this scenario, would never have happened in reality. At least…not together. Marcelle had taken tea with each of these individuals many times on their own, save for the Arishok, the times of which she had the pleasure of meeting him in private she could count on one hand (and even then, she had not been alone – out of courtesy for Qunari cultural customs, she had brought Fenris to act as her pseudo-_arvaarad_). That they were all here together, their personalities clashing and their habits crossing, was a miracle. But it was also, again, a dream.

And it was a good dream.

It was a wonderful dream.

In the waking world, Marcelle smiled against Sebastian's neck, and Sebastian's arms tightened around her at the sensation.

8-8-8

The town Sebastian had spoken of appeared on the horizon a little after the moon had reached its zenith. The lights of night watchmen could be seen strung up along the road, and Sebastian used them to guide their path in the night. Marcelle was resting quietly in the circle of his arms, having been lulled to sleep by the rocking of the horse and the whispering of the wind. She had slept for most of the journey, which had given Sebastian plenty of time to think.

It had been hard to be angry when he'd seen her chained to the floor of the Chantry, and it was even harder to stay that way now that she was resting quiet and vulnerable before him. A day ago, he had been uncertain, but he had been ready to stay the course. A week ago, he _knew _what his duty was. And now? Now he didn't know. A trial brought the likelihood of harm…of death. And Sebastian had just killed men for her. Had he done it to reserve the privilege for himself? He doubted it. He had walked out of the Redcliffe Chantry a different man than when he had entered. Whether or not he was better for it, he also didn't know.

What he _did _know was that something had changed, and that something was him. He was not above believing that men could change – that _some _men could change – fundamentally in a moment's notice. He had listened to the confessions of many men who called themselves killers, but who had repented because of a life changing event in the heat of battle. They had become good men, vowing to change their ways. Sebastian never thought that he could be one such man, but apparently, he was.

There also another reason why Sebastian's thoughts were muddled. The rhythmic rocking of the horse was perpetually thrusting Sebastian into Marcelle and vice versa. His…more sensitive areas were brushing up against her rear. He was aching. Celibacy had been easy to maintain when Marcelle was at arm's length and he was in full armor. It had been much harder to…think purely when her breasts were pressing against his chest or her round bottom was pushing against his nethers, which is why he had always worn his armor. But straddled over the horse, and at the pace he had kept, there had been no way to avoid the contact. Every gallop was a thrust of his hips into hers.

The lights of the torches were more frequent as Sebastian passed deeper into the small town. Slowing the horse so that he could observe the building, Sebastian was grateful for the physical reprieve. Mindful of the way the palfrey's hooves clattered along the cobblestones, he let the horse move at a slow, leisurely pace as his eyes scanned the small, sturdy buildings for sign of an inn. He identified what he thought was a tavern by the picture of a foaming mug of ale on the sign swinging outside it. The presence of a small stable at the rear of the building confirmed his suspicions. Likely, this was where couriers or travelers between Lake Calenhad and the rest of Fereldan stopped along their journey.

"Hawke," he said quietly, pressing his hands against Marcelle's shoulders, "Marcelle, time to wake up." Marcelle's head sagged forward, her golden hair spilling out from the cloak of the hood. He shook her again, whispering another, "Marcelle! Marcelle, we've arrived!" before she was roused.

"Ohh," she murmured and rubbed her eyes with her dirty palms. "I feel as though I've slept for days."

"Only a few hours," Sebastian replied. He smoothed his hands down her arms and placed them on her hips. Scooting her to the edge of the saddle, he braced against her as he dismounted. He let out a small sigh of pleasure at being able to stretch his legs. He offered a hand to the mage he traveled with, and she graciously took it. He had his free hand at her waist and she slid easily from the horse. Whatever it was the Templars had done to her had worn off and she was able to stand move about with ease, waving away his fussing hands.

"I can manage. Though, my bottom," she said with an overly dramatic sigh, "has gone walking from my body. I can't feel it anymore."

"Maybe it walked inside?" Sebastian tethered his horse in one of the stable's stalls. As it began to crunch on feed and straw, he unfastened the straps on his saddlebag and shrugged the bundle onto his shoulder. "That is where I would probably walk to."

"If you were my bottom?" She raised a blonde eyebrow at him.

Sebastian only flashed her a half smile and shook his head. "Come along, Hawke. You're starved; I'm half-starved, and I need to sleep."

"Oh," Marcelle made a genuine noise of concern, her pretty brow pulling itself into an expression of worry, "Sebastian…"

"You needed the rest," he replied sympathetically. He gestured to the stable door and to the inn. "Come, Milady Hawke."

Marcelle delicately picked her way after him, lifting the hem of her robe and the edge of her cloak to avoid soiling it in the stable's filth. Sebastian strode with purpose to the door, and she matched his steps as best she could. His legs were longer than hers, and it took her two steps to make up for every one of us, but she was inside the tavern before the door even shut behind him. She walked silently like a wraith, following in his footsteps and hiding in his shadow.

Neither the Prince nor the Viscountess had expected the owners of the establishment to be awake at that hour, and thus were quite surprised to find the elderly tavern keeper and his wife involved in a game of cards by a roaring fire. Marcelle hugged the cloak around her body to hide her dirty and torn robes from their view, not wanting to raise their suspicions. The cloak of the hood she also pulled down her forehead in a surreptitious gesture. She let the shadows of the cloak and the fire obscure her battered features, gambling on a desire that no one would peer at her too keenly.

"Pardon us for intruding so late," Sebastian said to the couple, touching his fingers to his chest, "but we could ride no longer in the dark. The horse was spooked, and I was too tired."

"Never you mind, Ser," said the inn keeper. He stood from his stool and pattered across to the long counter that blocked the access to the kitchen. "We have many folks like you traveling the roads these days. They come in at all sorts of hours. It isn't safe to be on the road at this time of night, especially not with a young lady with you."

"That's what she thought, too." Sebastian crossed to the counter and placed his hands flat on the surface. "I don't suppose you have any spare rooms then?"

The tavern keeper turned to his wife, and she bobbed her head at him. Her tight, white curls danced around her face. She looked kind in the firelight. "Aye, we have one spare room."

Sebastian sucked in a sharp breath and looked over his shoulder at Marcelle. She had pulled the cloak down so low over her head that all he could see of her face was the shadow of her nose and the pink curve of her lips. She smiled and mouthed at him, "_yes._" Turning back to the old man, Sebastian nodded his head and reached into his coin purse. "We'll take it. How much does it cost?"

"Four gold pieces," the old man replied. "Five for a bath in the morning, and six for stabling your horse."

Six gold pieces was a pittance. Sebastian let the coins clink onto the counter and watched as the old man inspected them carefully. "What's the symbol on the center there?"

"That is the royal crest of Starkhaven," Sebastian replied. "I'm a courier in the service of Prince Vael of Starkhaven."

"Are you now?" the tavern keeper looked impressed. "What's a Marcher like him want in Ferelden?"

"I would not know," Sebastian lied. "I just deliver his letters."

The tavern keeper made a grunt of understanding and reached under the counter for a key. He slid it across the gnarled and stained wood towards Sebastian. "First room on the right of the staircase."

"May we also trouble you for some dinner?" asked Marcelle. She had glided to Sebastian when he wasn't looking and laid a pale and slender hand along his. "The inn at Lakeside Perch was full, and Redcliffe was too out of the way for us to stop."

"That's the same complaint I've heard about Lakeside Perch. It's because of all the troubles with the Circle Tower in this area." The tavern keeper shook his head violently and his jowls shook like an old dog's. "Terrible times are coming. That sleepy town shouldn't be as busy as it is, but Perch is seeing all the gold on the road these days."

Marcelle only shrugged and kept her head low.

"Ma," the tavern keeper tilted his head towards the kitchen door. "See what you can't find for the young man and his lady." He then pulled a candle, some tinder, and a stand from beneath the counter. Fixing the candle in place and sparking the tinder into life with a piece of flint resting along the wall, the tavern keeper passed the light to Sebastian.

The tavern keeper's wife disappeared into the kitchen, and Sebastian scooped the key and the candle stand from the counter. "Our sincerest thanks, serrah."

"Indeed," echoed Marcelle softly, "our thanks."

Sebastian led the way through the tavern's small common room. It was tastefully decorated, with draperies of pale yellow that matched the upholstery of the room's chairs. The walls had been painted a linen-fresh white, and it appeared as though a delicate hand had painted tiny golden flowers into a border below the ceiling. There were chairs and tables enough for eight people, though by all rights the room could only comfortably fit six. The staircase was made of well-polished wood, and a hand woven rug of brown (_Fereldan _brown, the color of their dogs and their dirt) trailed down its center. The stairs creaked under the weight of their feet, the rug unable to muffle the sound, and both Sebastian and Marcelle were comforted by the noise. If they were followed, they at least would have some warning before they were attacked – and for Sebastian's piece of mind, if Marcelle chose to slip out during the night, he would hear her (though he doubted very much that she would).

The stairs led up to a narrow hallway that ended in a portrait of a young woman in a green dress. It looked to be old, but was painted in what Sebastian had recognized as an Antivan-style, and he wondered where such quiet innkeepers had acquired it. On either side of the hallway were heavy and gnarled brown doors, the first on the right of which was Sebastian and Marcelle's. Sebastian slipped the key in the lock while Marcelle shifted her weight from foot to foot behind him, the floorboards giving her movement away. The door swung open without a sound, and warm air scented with daisies rushed out to greet them.

The bedroom was decorated in the same way as the common room: the drapes were yellow, the bedclothes were yellow, and so were the rest of the feminine accents of the room.

"She really likes yellow," Marcelle commented of the innkeeper's wife when she entered. She slid the hood from her face and held up a lock of her hair, "and look," she continued in a droll voice, "it matches."

"Ahah," Sebastian laughed despite himself, quite taken aback by the sudden emergence of her rather lazy, if not self-deprecating, sense of humor. "It is always the simple things with you, Hawke, isn't it?" He placed the candle on the edge of the vanity dresser before picking his way to the bed.

"It makes life much less complex," she said in agreement. She slipped the cloak from around her shoulders, folded it carefully between dirty fingers, and placed the atop the vanity dresser's stool. She wandered around the small room, her hips brushing by Sebastian as he bent over the saddlebag he had dropped on the bed. "I will say though, I _am _very fond of this yellow. It reminds me of the daffodils father used to grow for mother. They were her favorite flower."

Sebastian turned over his shoulder and saw her fingering the yellow curtains with a winsome but sad expression on her face. The chain of her phylactery was wrapped around her wrist like Chantry prayer beads, though the phylactery looked far less humble than the wooden, rose-scented baubles. In the candlelight it glittered like a beautiful ruby, and the silver chain that held it up sparkled like a string of diamonds, like stars. He opened his mouth to speak, but Marcelle was quicker. Her lips were shadowy, but he saw them part, halt, and then boldly move.

"Did you come to Ferelden because you found Anders?" She stroked the fabric of the curtain with the backs of her fingers. "Or for some other reason?"

He managed to hide his wince. That was the closest that Marcelle was likely to ever say, "have you come to Ferelden to kill me?" It sounded terrible coming from her, but he should have known that she would have assumed that he had only the worst of intentions towards her. He had not been kind, though he had intended to be merciful.

"I did not find Anders," Sebastian said. He moved towards her, his body obscuring her view of the closed door. "I came to find you." A truth, if a vague one.

"And you found me," she replied serenely. She held out her wrist to him, raising it to his eye level so that the phylactery dangled in front of his nose. "You can claim this, Sebastian." Her words were silky and soft. "I will not deny you the justice that you need to heal."

Sebastian shook his head and raised a hand, pushing the phylactery away. "If I had wanted to keep you in the Circle Tower, I would have left you in Redcliffe. The phylactery is yours, Marcelle. I said it before, I'll say it again: you'll do the right thing."

"And," she smiled, "if this is the right thing? This phylactery will let you find me no matter where I am or what I am doing." She unraveled the chain from her hand and held the phylactery itself between her thumb and forefinger. She twisted it in the shadows, shaking the contents inside it. "I am giving you the choice," she insisted, "because it is you that has been wronged. Free me or claim the right to hunt and punish me. I accept whatever judgment you pass upon me for what happened in Kirkwall."

There was only one other woman who Sebastian knew of who could look as soft and yet as unyielding as stone at the same time, and that was the late Grand Cleric of Kirkwall. Her doe eyes were filled with understanding, and on her features there slumbered a quiet resignation. It was the same expression she had worn in Kirkwall – and just as it asked Sebastian to judge her, so too did it judge _him. "_For all that you preached virtue," it cried, "you have forsaken it in its final hour. What man are you to judge me thusly? Why now do you abandon your faith in me?" Sebastian wanted to rail against that face and to prove it wrong.

This face had been at the forefront of his mind for months. It tortured him. Had Andraste looked at Maferath the same way when he'd betrayed her to her sworn enemies? Left her in the hands of men and women who would see her dead as he turned his back?

Sebastian was beginning to feel he had acted no better.

He took a deep breath and clenched his hands into fists. "I cast judgment upon you once without listening to you, Marcelle," Sebastian managed in a steady voice. "I have had time to reflect upon that, and I was wrong in doing so. I'll not make the same mistake again."

Her expression softened, the clouds lifting from her face to reveal a smile that was as warm as sunlight. "You will be a remarkable prince." Seeing him shift his weight anxiously on the balls of his feet, Marcelle reached out and touched her fingers to the side of his face. His stubble pricked at her skin, but she smiled in enjoyment of its texture. "And in all fairness, it was not as though I gave you an explanation…"

"I'm wise enough to know that I wouldn't have listened," Sebastian's smile was fragile. "I'm quite arrogant and impulsive, or so I've been told."

Marcelle raised an eyebrow in surprise. "You have changed much in a year."

"And you have not changed at all."

"I have a few more wrinkles," she murmured. "Not quite the same as I was."

"Marcelle," Sebastian licked at his lips, "I came to Ferelden to bring you back to Starkhaven and put you on trial for what happened in Kirkwall…."

"Then you should take the phylactery. I am serious, Sebastian."

"…but I have doubts."

Marcelle sighed. "I am guilty of negligence, though to what end one can punish that in Starkhaven, I do not know." Her eyes looked to the vial pinched between her fingers. "I cannot confess to knowing Anders's intentions, because I did not. I duped myself into believing that he truly wished to live apart from Justice again, because if there is one thing that makes me vulnerable, it is how easily I give my friendship and my trust."

And that quality, that _goodness, _was the thing that Sebastian had admired most about her. It was also the thing that most made him want to condemn her – and what sort of world would Sebastian create, then, to punish all those who gave their hearts and hands freely to others in the hopes to make them better? It was not a world worth living in it at all, not when he would be King of the Hypocrites and Prince of Starkhaven both.

"But," and at this there was the _slightest _glimmer of maliciousness in her smile, a tight pull at the corners of her mouth that hardened the soft curves of her lips, "the betrayal was not without repercussions. Anders and Justice are one, both their personalities, and their purpose. In creating justice for the mages," she said quietly, "Anders also wanted to create justice for those who died in the Chantry. He wanted death, he wanted justice for those people, and I would not give it to him. Could you imagine," she let her hand slip from his cheek to his heart, "being a creature of Justice and yet being _denied _it? He is a creature of singular desires, his entire being is based around a doctrine of Justice – achieving and dispensing it." Her eyes closed and she took a deep breath. "And I did not let him have it. I denied Justice the justice of his innocent victims. It is a paradox in which he will forever be trapped, and will forever be tormented by. It was as much a punishment," her eyes fluttered open again, "as it was a mercy. Pity him, Sebastian, for he will never be whole again. Neither of them shall."

He had done as Lady Cousland had asked of him: he had listened to Marcelle. He would not have believed her words a year ago, but he was compelled to believe them now, now after having hunted and saved her. Sebastian had memorized the Chant; he knew that the Maker's first children had disappointed Him with their inability to shape the world beyond their own limited understanding. They could not create; they could only make extensions of themselves, of the singular qualities they embodied. Justice – Anders – the Abomination – had tried to shape a situation where Justice could be found, and yet, he had failed.

"_There are better punishments than death. Death is so easy."_

He understood what Lady Cousland had meant now.

Sebastian's eyes took Marcelle's face between his hands and ran his thumbs over her cheeks. "I am ashamed," he whispered. "You have shamed me with your wisdom. All these months, and I thought you were his ally, his friend. I have no way to make amends for my stupidity."

"You already did," Marcelle replied fondly. "You came back for me."

"I…suppose I did."

"Sebastian…" she drew away from him, and Sebastian let his arms fall to his sides.

"Hawke?"

"Marcelle," she corrected.

"Marcelle."

With a quick movement of her arms, she slipped the chain of the phylactery around Sebastian's neck. Sebastian looked horrified at the action and tried to take the thing off, plucking and dropping the chain as though it burned him. He did this several times before Marcelle, wearing an expression of tender amusement, stilled his hands by placing her own atop his.

"This is yours," she murmured, peering up into his face. "Just as I have always been yours."

He took a step back in surprise, drawing Marcelle with him. "Marcelle, I…"

She pressed the phylactery against his heart. "I do not need you to reciprocate," she continued, "I have never needed that. Just know that I will always be here for you. And if you need me, you have only to use that to find me."

"I…" Sebastian was interrupted by a knock on their door, and cursed its ill timing.

"That would," Marcelle said ruefully, "probably be our supper."

"Probably," he agreed. He watched her hips sway as she walked towards the door, his eyes only drawn up her body by the sudden flash of white light from her hands. She had probably cast some sort of healing cantrip to hide the bruises and cuts on her face that had, until that moment, gone untended.

Marcelle opened the door and peaked around its corner. It was indeed the tavern keeper's wife, and in her hands was a tray containing two jugs of water, two bowls of steaming soup, and some husks of thick bread. "Oh, my lady," she mumbled, taking the tray from the old woman's hands, "you are too good to us."

The tavern keeper's wife smiled at the praise. "You look like you haven't eaten days, my dear. I thought you needed a hot meal. That big bowl there," she pointed to the bowl with the larger amount of stew, "is yours. Don't let your strapping courier eat it."

The mage let out a quiet peal of laughter. "I will fight him to the last mouthful, I promise."

"There's a good girl." The tavern keeper's wife gave Sebastian a friendly wave. "Have a pleasant evening, you two. My husband and I are retiring for the night."

Sebastian tipped his head in farewell and it was only when Marcelle kicked the door shut with a gentle tap of her heel that he released the phylactery that he had been hiding in his grasp.

"Come, Sebastian," Marcelle settled the tray of food on the bed. "Your dinner will get cold if you linger by the window." She settled herself beside it, tucking her legs beneath her as she pulled the smaller of the two clay bowls into her lap.

Sebastian sat on the bed opposite her. He watched her fiddle with the hem of her dirty robes, tucking it under her ankles so that he would not see, but he had. When he sighed, she looked up at him, and smiled shyly. He took the bowl of soup from her lap, trading it for the one that was near filled to the brim.

"You need to eat that," he ordered. "The innkeeper's wife will know if you didn't. And she'll scold me."

"Are you afraid of being scolded?"

"By old ladies? Aye. That I am."

Marcelle chuckled and reached for one of the pieces of bread. Sebastian continued to watch her, and she became conscious of his scrutiny, pausing in her movements before she placed the bread in the stew and tucked her hair behind her ear.

"You are watching me," she said quietly.

"I am."

"Why?"

Sebastian only smiled. Marcelle Hawke was a beautiful woman, and even more lovely when she was flustered, as he noticed she was becoming. He had known this woman a long time, had called her a friend, then an enemy, and now a friend again. He had to take her to Kirkwall that much he knew, but he could not stand to put her on trial. He had not explained to his advisors in court that he had come to Ferelden to hunt down an apostate; he said he was going on personal business. Personal business covered a wide variety of things.

The Maker had entwined his path with Marcelle's for a reason, and had also given him the key to stride through the locked gates that had otherwise hindered him. Of course, Anders was still at large, and Sebastian was very eager to catch him, but there were other ways, perhaps better ways, to bait him out of hiding than to hang Marcelle over a wall or make a public example out of her. His quarrel wasn't with mages, just with Anders. And foolishly, he was still thinking of Anders, when he should have been thinking about Marcelle.

He gave a small cough of displeasure when she raised the piece of bread she'd dunked into the soup to her mouth.

"What is it?" she asked, curious as to why he was chastising her.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" Sebastian asked.

Marcelle blinked, not understanding his meaning. "Salt?"

Sebastian shook his head and reached for one of the mugs of water, long fingers wrapping around the handle. "You're forgetting our toast."

"A toast?" She frowned and canted her head. "What are we toasting to?"

"To a formal alliance between Starkhaven and Kirkwall."

* * *

><p><em>Sorry for the long delay on the update! Real life has been incredibly hectic. I'm in the process of moving for law school, so finding a place to live and roommates has been sapping all of my creative energy. <em>

_So, now the majority of the angst is over with, its fluff from here on out. Just to give readers some context (though you might have already guessed it from Marcelle and Sebastian's memories), beyond being excellent friends, Sebastian and Marcelle had extreme unrequited sexual tension for the length of time they've known each other - each saw the other as forbidden fruit, so to speak. So if things progress rapidly from here on out, my apologies - I'm doing my best to explain the characters' reasoning, but it is a bit hard to translate all those seven years' worth of past feelings into the present without expanding this story significantly (and beyond what I have time for :( ). _

_Thank you to everyone who has been following along with _Worth! _I'm glad you've been enjoying the story, and I hope you continue to enjoy it as we sail the merry seas of fluff. _


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

"A…" Marcelle's tongue felt too big for her mouth. "Formal alliance?" Her eyelashes fluttered as her mind raced through all the possibilities of what his words meant.

"You look surprised." Sebastian traced the rim of his mug with a long finger. "You were the one who made the suggestion to me, if I recall correctly. Have you," and he said this with a teasing tone of voice and a gentle quirk to his lips, "had second thoughts about an alliance with Starkhaven?"

"No!" Marcelle shook her head quickly and placed the bowl of soup back on the tray, lest she spill it all over herself. Her empty stomach whined in protest and she clapped a hand over it to silence it. "Not at all. I…am just surprised that you would risk allying Starkhaven with Kirkwall in these times of troubles. And look at us," she chuckled, "we're speaking as if I'm still the Viscountess. I am sure that title has been stripped from me in my absence."

"You would be surprised." Sebastian fixed a knowing stare at her. "The people of Kirkwall still recognize you as Viscountess. They know you are alive, and that you cannot return because of Templar control on the city, but that doesn't make you their leader and their Champion any less."

"That is…" Marcelle closed her eyes as she considered what he said, "unexpected."

"If you are worried about titles," said Sebastian slyly, "I would advise you not to be. It would not be hard to reclaim Kirkwall and the seat of your power. There are many large, freestanding armies in the Marches that owe allegiance in some form to my family. Besides," his smile was wolfish in the dim light, "I am sure Seneschal Bran is quite _bored _and would be happy to have you do all the paperwork once more."

"Resent me for it, you mean." Marcelle smiled fondly into the bottom of her cup. "I love Kirkwall, but I would not spill innocent blood so I could call myself Viscountess again."

"If the people want to spill their blood for you, then that is their choice. It is the burden that all sovereigns have to bear."

"You are speaking," Marcelle canted her head to one side, "from experience, aren't you?"

"From future expectations," Sebastian corrected. "And…" he continued quietly, "what I propose would not just merely be an alliance and military assistance." Sebastian returned his mug to the tray, his eyes watching the way the water sloshed and rippled as the clay mug met the wooden surface. "My grandfather once told me that the strength of kings stems from their faith in the Maker and the support of their wives." He brought himself to bear upon her, sliding the tray of food up the length of the bed to occupy its place in front of her.

Marcelle flushed at the closeness and the earnestness of his gaze. The blush on her cheeks deepened when he took her hand in his, though she kept her eyes fixed resolutely to his. She gave him no quarter as his bow callused fingers plucked at the skin of her palms and smoothed down the length of her hands. "I…" she frowned, "I do not want to make any assumptions about what you are saying…but are you asking me to marry you?"

"The kings of men shepherd their people into the Maker's glory, but I am not without my flaws, Marcelle. For all the years I've known you, you have kept me honest, both in my own eyes, and in the Maker's. Starkhaven," he said with a raise of his chin, "needs a leader who is wise and compassionate, who is firm, but who is also able to see reason and mercy. And I know I could be all of those things with you by my side." A part of Sebastian feared that she would say no, that he had been, perhaps, too hasty in this proposal. But he had been so moved by her words, by her beauty, her wisdom, that it was hard to deny all the feelings he had kept contained while he was in the Chantry. "I have traveled across the sea for you, I tracked you down, and I cannot simply let you leave again."

"Sebastian," Marcelle removed her hand from his and absently tugged down the sleeve of her dirty robe, "I would be…honored to aide you in Starkhaven. But," she smiled kindly at him, "you do not have to marry me to have my support. I know you swore yourself to Andraste, and I will not tempt you from the path you have chosen to walk, whether you are a priest or a prince. You have my love and my help without needing treaties or promises."

"I would do right by you, Hawke. But," he looked at her pensively, lips puckering in thought, "perhaps I am going about this the wrong way." He reached out a hand to cup her cheek, his fingertips tangling in her matted, golden locks. Slowly, he leaned forward, pulling Marcelle to him until their lips met. Her lips were warm and soft and felt like the whisper of a butterfly's wings against his own. He saw her eyes widen and he smiled against her mouth. She tried to draw away but he kissed her again, and this time he saw her eyes flutter shut and felt the timid pressure of one of her slender hands against the column of his throat.

It was a gentle kiss, a simple meeting of lips, breath, and spirit. It was not chaste, for kisses such as the one they shared were meant to be done by lovers, but it was innocent and pure in its intent nonetheless. It was also long overdue, as both Sebastian and Marcelle discovered by the quickening of their blood and the breath. Marcelle could feel Sebastian's heartbeat fluttering below her palm, and the hand that Sebastian had slipped to her waist could feel the gentle tremors of pleasure rippling through her body. And when at last they pulled away, they stared at each other with a sense of wonderment.

Marcelle put her fingers to her lips, her eyes wide with surprise. Words escaped her, and so Sebastian filled the silence.

"Since learning of my family's death," Sebastian said quietly, "I have prayed to Andraste for guidance. I searched for a sign of what to do. I thought Her silence was an affirmation of the Maker's will, and in His service I was happy. I was ready to forget being Prince of Starkhaven, but then - "

"Oh no," Marcelle interrupted, looking mortified. "Please do not tell me you think the destruction of the Chantry was the sign you were looking for?"

"It was my home for many years," he replied simply. "And it was taken from me." He reached for her hand again and drew it away from her mouth. "There is no more obvious sign that that." He saw her open her mouth to comment and silenced her with a shake of his head. "I still serve the Maker, in my own way. Do not trouble yourself about my convictions."

"Your convictions do not worry me, Sebastian." Marcelle let out a deep sigh and slowly placed her hands on either side of his face. Her fingers ruffled the hair behind his ears and with another sigh, she brought their foreheads together. "I just...I hope…with every piece of me…that you want this as much as I have wanted it." Once upon a time when things had been better and life simpler, Anders had told her of the friend and lover he had lain awake at night aching for – and she had shamefully admitted to having similar feelings. She had never told him they were for Sebastian, but she knew he had guessed by the dirty looks he had sent the Prince.

With her confession came a kiss. Her lips were strong and demanding, prying and searching for his soul and his secrets with the softness of her pink tongue. She felt, rather than heard, Sebastian groan. Emboldened by the sound, her hands tangled deeper into his hair and she pulled herself closer until her knees were resting against his thighs. Sebastian's groaning gave way into laughter, and Marcelle was forced to abandon her kiss at the presence of his strong hands on her upper arms pulling her away.

"Easy, love, easy," he whispered, his blue eyes shining in amusement. "There will be plenty more of them. They do not run dry."

"I have a drinking problem," she whispered sinfully against his lips, her eyes transfixed to his in a half-lidded gaze, "or at the very least I will soon develop one."

Sebastian laughed loudly at that, tossing his head back. "I can think of a remedy or two to help cure it from experience!"

"Anything you might have," she said after placing a kiss to his chin, her lips rubbing against the stubble, "would be much appreciated." She snuck a quick kiss to Sebastian's exposed throat, which prompted the Prince of Starkhaven to right himself and gather her into his arms. Her side was pressed awkwardly against the ridges of his light breastplate. The sigh that Sebastian let out ruffled the hair on the top of her head, and she did not know whether he sighed in frustration at her actions, or in contentment.

"It is a simple pleasure to hold a woman again." He rested his cheek against the top of her head. He smiled as he felt her chest rise and fall with her breathing and paced his own breathing to match. He threaded his fingers through hers and brought their joined hands over his heart. "I had forgotten what it feels like."

"So you truly mean it then," Marcelle tilted her head back against his shoulder to look at him. "You wish to marry me?"

"I do," he smiled.

"And," Marcelle pitched her voice low in a conspiratorial whisper, "you do not think Andraste will be jealous?"

"I would not think so. She still has me," Sebastian said, running the backs of two fingers down her cheek, "just no longer all of me. I will always praise Her name, and swear to make His kingdom glorious. But I will also swear every earthly covenant between a man and a wife with you."

Marcelle flushed pink straight to the tips of her toes. Her face was a mixture of excitement, surprise, and fear.

Sebastian saw this and dropped another fond kiss on her forehead. "But not tonight. When I have seen you safely crowned Princess of Starkhaven I will greet you as a proper husband. For now, you must endure my rather pitiful attempts at courtship."

Marcelle struggled to sit up, straightening herself with an artful arch of her back. "Have you never courted anyone before?"

"In my younger days, yes. Though I would," he looked embarrassed to admit it, "hardly call it courting. The…young ladies I knew were not particularly hard to woo."

"Oh." She blinked. "_Oh._"

"Have _you_…ever been courted?"

Marcelle had to take a few moments to think about that question. "I think so. There have been attempts to court me. I…was just never interested." She smiled at him tenderly. "My attention was elsewhere."

"Was it now?" Sebastian raised an eyebrow and felt a small blossom of masculine pride growing in his chest. "Where was your attention?"

"On the _Arishok_ of course!" She wrinkled her nose at him. "He was the greatest threat to the city at the time."

"Ah, yes," he sympathized in return, fingers wandering around her sides and digging in playfully. "Most certainly the greatest threat."

Marcelle squirmed out of his arms, her flailing nearly knocking one of the mugs of water over. "Husbands should not torture their wives!" she pleaded as his hands continued to stroke at her mercilessly, showing her that his hands were the greatest threat at that moment. "They are supposed to take care of them!" Her face was flushed and her chest was heaving, but Sebastian was unrelenting and only gave up when she curled herself into a ball. She wrapped her arms around her middle to catch her breath and ward off the hunger pangs that were threatening to emerge. "We can play later," she gasped, "but please just let me finish the soup."

The rustling of the tray against the bed linen behind her and then the presence of Sebastian's hands on her shoulders lifting her up was the signal that sent her mouth watering and her appetite soaring to new heights. She took back her bowl of soup, scooped up the soggy bread with her spoon, opened her mouth, and feasted. In between mouthfuls she commented about the flavor of the soup, how it could be improved, how her mother used to cook it, and the techniques for growing the different ingredients.

Sebastian watched and listened with an amused expression as his future wife inhaled her soup and the majority of bread. Though it had been nearly a day since he'd eaten, he was much more methodical and slow, breaking apart the bread into tiny pieces and then neatly dunking them into what was now a lukewarm paste of rice, lentils, and onions. When he ran the risk of dirtying his fingertips he switched to one of the deep wooden spoons.

He was about half-way through his meal when he realized that Marcelle's idle banter about Fereldan food had stopped. He noticed that she was looking longingly at what remained of the soup in his bowl. She was like her late mabari, who would come to the dinner table and stare mournfully at Sebastian when he had visited her for dinner. "Do you…" he extended the bowl and spoon to her, finding her disheveled appearance and flushed cheeks to remind him of the Fereldan orphans that had used to come to the Chantry (and then it hit him that she _was _a Fereldan orphan), "want the rest of this?"

She nodded her head and smiled sheepishly.

"I would give you my last mouthful, if you required it," Sebastian said, "it is my duty to see you whole and healthy, wife." He placed the bowl in her lap and watched in contentment as her eyes closed shut when she ate what was left of the soup. She had likely not eaten for days. "Now if only we had a bath," he mused, "then we could wipe some of the day's grime away."

"The bath will have to wait until the bathhouse is open in the morning." Marcelle's tongue darted out to lave at the curve of the spoon, the sight of which sent a hot pang of need down Sebastian's stomach. "Though…" she eyed the porcelain washbowl that rested on a stand in the corner, "I could… no." She dropped the spoon into the bowl and placed it back on the tray. "I shouldn't."

"You shouldn't what?" asked Sebastian curiously.

A look of pain passed over her face. "I could…conjure some water in the basin. A sponge bath is better than no bath, yes?"

Sebastian turned the thought over in his head: it was _dangerous _for her to be casting magic… But his doubts vanished when a thunderclap overhead sounded and rain began to pound on the roof. If the tavern keeper asked about the water, they could always say that they filled the basin from the rain…

"I suppose it is," he said after some length. Marcelle looked honestly shocked that he had agreed to the suggestion. "I trust you, Marcelle. You have always used the gifts the Maker has given you responsibly."

Mollified, Marcelle slipped off the bed and padded to the small washstand. She rubbed her hands together briefly before whispering something to her fingertips. All at once, the sound of tiny droplets striking the bowl's surface could be heard. The gentle symphony blended with the rain, disappearing completely as the bowl filled to its brim.

Marcelle turned over her shoulder to call for Sebastian, "do you want to…" she stopped midway as she saw him pulling a spare fencer's shirt and trousers out of the saddlebag. "Uhm…would you like to go first?"

Sebastian shook his head.

Marcelle turned back to the bowl and felt heat creeping up her cheeks. "The water will probably be very dirty when I am done with it."

"I will make do," Sebastian reassured her.

Licking at her lips and knowing that there was nothing to be done about it, she tilted her head forward and began unclasping the padded binding around her waist. Sliding the washbasin to the stand's edge, she folded the heavy fabric of the binding and placed it beside it. She then slid off the voluminous outer robe with its quilted insides to help shield her from wayward blades and arrows. This she also folded and placed it atop the binding. She did not remove the delicate inner robe made of an airy fabric, though she did unclasp the first few toggles so that she could slip the robe down her shoulders if she so chose.

She rolled up her sleeves and took the small washcloth at the basin's edge in hand. Carefully dipping one end in, she wrung out the excess water and brought the cloth to her face. She rubbed away the grime and gore that had accumulated from her captivity amongst the Templars. She ran the cloth over the top of her head, sweeping it over her dirty locks of hair until she reached the back of her neck. As she was tipping her head forward a rumble of thunder sounded outside and she felt a pair of hands cover hers.

"Let me," Sebastian said in a hoarse voice as he pushed away her hair from the back of her neck. He felt the small hairs on the back of her neck stand on end as his fingertips stroked her nape, followed by the cold touch of the washcloth. He smoothed away a rivulet of dried blood that had come from a wound somewhere in her scalp and placed a gentle kiss where the droplet used to be. Marcelle shivered in his arms as he continued to carefully wash her. From her neck he moved to first one shoulder and then other, a finger slipping along the neckline of the robe to gently bring it over her shoulders. He moved the cloth in a slow, circular motion over the skin he revealed, dropping a reverent kiss atop each bruise he encountered.

When he felt her shoulders and upper arms were sufficiently clean, he passed the washcloth up the column of her throat, wiping it under her jaw and down to the hollow of her chest. He dragged the washcloth carefully across the front of her, mindful of the way her skin prickled at his touch. He wrapped one arm around her waist to steady her, bringing them flush to the point where Sebastian, having removed his armor, could not hide the evidence of his arousal. Her breasts were curved over the top of his forearm, and as he dragged the cloth over her chest again, he felt the stiff buds of her nipples pressing up through their binding against his wrist.

"I am going to let you," he whispered in her ear, "tend to the rest yourself. I have placed one of my shirts and a pair of breaches on the bed for you."

"If you let me go," Marcelle whispered back, "I shall fall to the floor."

"I have faith that you are stronger than that, wife." Sebastian placed a kiss to the curve of her neck. "But I need to pray. A lot."

"Will I get to return the kindness, at least?" she asked.

"We shall see how fast I can pray," was Sebastian's amused but strained response. He let his hand slip from around her waist and balled it into a fist. "And how fast you can bathe."

"I shall go extra slow if you are watching."

"Oh, Maker," Sebastian whispered, "truly, do not tempt me."

"See to your prayers," Marcelle said with a tender smile over her shoulder. "I will not torment you." After a moment she winked. "Much." Seeing Sebastian's cheeks flush a deep red, she added, "Sebastian, I have waited years for you and I could wait years more. I am just…" she turned and reached for his hand, "so very happy that you are with me."

Sebastian only smiled in response and tucked a lock of hair that had fallen out of place behind her ear.

"I will come get you when I am done."

Nodding, Sebastian turned and moved to the wall opposite her, dutifully allowing her the privacy she needed to continue. Kneeling before the window, Sebastian offered his silent prayers to the Maker, thankful for the blessings that He had bestowed upon him, and for giving him the strength to be righteous in the face of injustice. And if the Maker heard him, Sebastian did not know, but in his heart he was sure that someone most certainly had.

* * *

><p><em>Moving along, moving along - the seas are smooth tonight! <em>

_I know, I know, short chapter and edits for such a long delay, but alas, there were some RL issues that had to be dealt with. That's mostly resolved now - I won't be homeless when going to law school! Woo! And on that note - I am currently taking offers for BFFs and second-Moms in the Northern Virginia/DC area. I'll eat anything. You cook me brussels sprouts, and I will eat them. Om nom nom. In all seriousness though, Icey's going to be super lonely - so if things slow down in the writing department during August - October, you know why. _

_Anyhow! Thank you to all my lovely readers - both for reading, and enduring the wait!_


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22 **

Sebastian awoke with the sound of morning rain. The pattering on the rooftop drew his eyelids open and it took him a few moments to adjust to the relative gloom of the room. The curtains were shut against the morning light and only the faintest slivers of grey, misty morning shine filtered through the gap between them. The fire in the hearth that Marcelle had conjured before they went to sleep to ward off the wet chill had long since died out, and he had blown out the candle before retiring. All was quiet and dark.

The cloak he had used for a blanket was warm, but not as warm as the body he held gently in his arms, and this wasn't even comparable to the heat from the even puffs of air against his neck. Looking down, he could see the profile of Marcelle's face in the dim light. Still deeply asleep, no doubt wandering the Fade somewhere (for Sebastian knew that this is what mages did; Marcelle had told him this often enough), Marcelle rested peacefully beside him. For the sake of her virtue and his own peace of mind, he had tucked her under the heavy sheets and woolen blankets of the bed, opting to spend the night atop them with his cloak for warmth. It had not stopped them from curling against one another though, and Sebastian enjoyed the simple, pleasant contact that they shared.

Despite the potential dangers that hounded them, he had still managed to rest soundly that night. It likely had to do with the fact that Marcelle's body had been soft and supple in his arms, a warm anchor against the storm that had raged outside. He had been lulled to sleep by the tender caresses of her fingertips running up and down the length of his chest, dipping into the spaces between his shirt clasps. In the darkness, he had seen her slender fingers glow blue, and he knew she had tried to soothe his muscles and his worries away with her magic. She'd succeeded.

It pained Sebastian to think that they had to be on their way soon, because he was greatly enjoying the feeling of being _needed_ – being _trusted. _Marcelle slept so trustingly in his arms despite all the wrongs he had done to her. He did not deserve her, yet she had pledged herself to him, and truly Sebastian was still surprised she had even agreed to his hasty proposition. He would not have agreed to it, were their roles reversed, but then he supposed that was why he needed her so much. He needed her gentle, kind perspective, her mind that was free of harsh judgments.

It was with a reluctant sigh that he pulled himself away from Marcelle. Still fast asleep, she rolled into the space he had left behind in the bed, curling up into the warmth. She muttered something soft and far away, and Sebastian could not resist stroking her cheek once before departing to attend to the business of their bath and breakfast.

The tavern keeper and his wife were both up and in the sitting room. They were finishing their card game from the previous night, and from the look on the wife's face, it appeared she was winning.

"Pardon the interruption," said Sebastian, folding his hands in front of him. "But I thought I would inquire about the possibility of a bath?"

The wife had been the one to respond, flashing him a smile that was far too bright for so early in the morning. "I have it going in the bath house," she said. "Just waiting on the water to heat up! You can wait for it in there if you like, or I can come get you when it's ready."

"Knock softly," he requested. "The lady is still asleep."

The old woman nodded and looked back down at her cards and Sebastian returned up the stairs. He hopped from stair to stair on the balls of his toes, mindful not to let too much of his weight land on the ancient wood, lest the creaking wake up Marcelle. To his relief, she did not stir at the gentle tap of the door shutting closed behind him, nor did she move when he lifted the saddlebag from the floor and placed it on the vanity stool. He rummaged through it for the last of his clean shirts, having given Marcelle the only other pair of trousers he had packed. Removing the shirt, he replaced the gap it made in the bag with what was left of her ripped and tattered robes. Marcelle had judiciously stripped fabric from her inner robe to construct a belt to keep Sebastian's pants in place. Her own clothes were too soiled from captivity and torture to wear for much longer, and Sebastian had graciously given her what spare clothing he had.

Pulling out a comb, his shaving kit, and a mirror, he placed them on the vanity and closed the flap on the saddlebag. With nothing to do but wait for the tavern keeper's wife to fetch him, Sebastian settled himself beside Marcelle on the bed and contented himself with dragging his fingertips along the exposed curve of her shoulder. The shirt he had given her was too big, and the neckline too wide to be modest, but Marcelle had not protested at the feeling of clean fabric against her skin. She had said that its fit would not matter once she wrapped her cloth binder around her waist, and thanked him for his generosity with a soft kiss to his cheek.

He could not deny that she looked pleasing in his clothes. He had been in the middle of thanking the Maker for his generosity the previous night when he'd looked up to see Marcelle standing in naught but her breast band and his shirt. The long fencer's shirt skirted the tops of her thighs and was barely low enough to cover the curve of her rear and other private places. She obviously had not seen him looking; otherwise she would have hastily tied the neck of the shirt shut. And she most certainly would not have bent forward to step into his trousers.

Of course, Sebastian had seen her naked before and so he knew what lurked behind the grey fabric of her undergarment and the gauzy white of his shirt. Breasts as soft and white as doves waited below well sculpted shoulders and a long, slender neck, and lower still was the wide jut of her hips that framed the patch of curls between her thighs. He took a deep breath to steady himself and quench the feelings of lust that stirred in his gut. The Maker willing, they would have a lifetime to explore one another and enjoy the pleasures of each other's bodies.

As he lay beside her, a future of love and promise unfurled in his mind. He could see her in his mind's eye as a glorious and radiant wife, her golden head crowned with his mother's diadem of sapphires and diamonds. Kind and wise, she would sit beside him at court and during council to offer her input. And as she was steadfast and loyal, not even when she was swollen and round with his child would she forsake her duty to her people. Tired from her days mediating disputes in faraway Kirkwall and shepherding her subjects, she would fall into his arms, into their bed, and allow him to ease the tension away from her muscles and kiss the swell of new life growing within her. With his heart, his lips, his fingers, and his body he would push the troubles out of her mind and make love to her with languid kisses and slow, tender strokes.

It was a future that Sebastian had thought lost to him, something meant only for older brothers and fathers and uncles.

But it was his future now.

His mouth curved into a smile and he could not resist leaning down to kiss the edge of her jaw. His lips trailed a gentle path up the shell of her ear as he whispered words of adoration and admiration. "It is hard to think that only a few hours ago I thought you my enemy, and now I find you in my arms as my greatest friend and ally…"

"Good morning to you as well, husband," she murmured, rubbing the side of her hand across her eyes.

"You heard that, did you?" Sebastian chuckled. "I am sorry to wake you, love. I would have gotten you up when the bath was ready…"

Marcelle turned her sleepy, flushed face to the window. "I hear rain. Has the storm not passed?"

"Not yet, though I've yet to hear thunder and lightning."

"It will be a chilly ride north." Marcelle propped herself on her elbow and ruffled one hand through her already sleep tousled hair. It was in a much better state than it had been last night, though it was still on the lank and oily side. "Fereldan rain is quite unforgiving…"

"I imagine the Templars are even more so," Sebastian replied somberly.

"Only some," she admitted. "And they deserve our pity, not our scorn."

"Deviant mage though you might be sometimes," Sebastian took her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to his, "I can think of no mage least deserving of punishment than you."

Marcelle offered him a sleepy smile. "You are quite biased."

"Tell me," Sebastian ran his thumb over the curve of her lip, his body shaking against its will when her tongue darted out to flick at the tip, "how did the Templars capture you?"

"I am not sure." She pressed her lips to his thumb in gentle kiss. "I did my best to be discreet, but it appeared that for all the new faces in Lothering, there were still old faces who liked to gossip after worship. The Templars must have overhead them and recognized my description. Or maybe," her hand covered the phylactery that still hang around his chest, "they used something more sinister to find me."

Sebastian shook his head at the thought. "When I went to your house, I found your seed pouch on the ground outside. Were you planting a garden?"

"I was. It was my herb garden, the last thing I had left to plant."

"What did you intend to do in Lothering?"

"Start a new life." She turned her face to the window, staring at the light between the curtains. "Being the mysterious old crone on the edge of the village sounded much more appealing than being on the run for the rest of my days."

"Would you want to," Sebastian frowned, "return to Lothering?"

"No," her eyes met his once more. "That chapter of my life has to end. Twice now I've been in Lothering, and each time I have been forcefully evicted from my home."

"It will be much harder to evict you from Starkhaven."

"I imagine it would be," she touched her hand to his cheek, "I would not leave your side without a fight."

"Nor I yours." He took her hand in his and kissed it firmly, holding it to his lips in silent promise. He was forced to release it when a gentle tap on the other side of the door signaled that their bath was ready.

"Breakfast?" Marcelle's eyes sparkled at the prospect.

"No," Sebastian smiled, "something better."

She gasped. "The bath!"

"Aye. And," he tapped her nose with his finger, "I'll get you breakfast as you're soaking,"

"I must still be dreaming."

The knock came again, and it was louder this time. Sebastian reluctantly pulled himself from the bed and fetched Marcelle's boots from their place at the washstand. He passed them off to her as he moved to the door and slipped through it to see to their breakfast and their horses. He gave Marcelle the privacy she needed in the bathhouse, opting to eat his breakfast of yesterday's bread slathered in a thick, apple preserve while he waited.

He had taken the liberty of snatching the journal they'd procured from the Knight-Guardian with him to breakfast. He'd stuffed in his belt as he'd darted out the door, and now as he was crunching away on the bread's crust, he took the opportunity to read it. Marcelle's suspicion about the phylactery was correct – the Knight-Guardian confirmed the use of the phylactery to find Marcelle's whereabouts. His intentions in regards to Marcelle were less clear, however. She was referenced only vaguely and often in regards to the "threat of demonic possession." If Sebastian was reading between the lines correctly, he would have guessed that the Knight-Guardian had been trying to weaken Marcelle to the point where she would be susceptible to outside influences – namely demons. _Why _a Templar would deliberately wish for a mage to be possessed was beyond Sebastian's comprehension. He could only chalk up the Knight-Guardian's motivations to being lyrium addled.

The only other interesting thing in the diary were the notes the Knight-Guardian had written in regards to what others of his order were doing. He had stationed a large number of his men at the Lake Calenhad Circle Tower, and one of his lieutenants there was writing to him that he needed more men. The Knight-Guardian had obliged, and had again been asked for more men. He'd sent fifty men into the Circle Tower when another request came, and if Sebastian hadn't arrived when he did, the Knight-Guardian likely would have gone to the Circle Tower to investigate the need. After all, if none of the assigned Templar guards were going missing, and the mages were not rebelling, why would more men be needed?

There was also much talk of Templar activity within the Brecilian Forest, and of how they had been cutting trees down from the eastern most portion. They were trying to find a very powerful witch, Flemeth, who was rumored to live in the woods, or as the Knight-Guardian had written, "find what was left of her, and what she had left behind." Apparently, the witch had been killed at some point, and they wanted her remains and her belongings. To what end, the Knight-Guardian had not written. Sebastian vaguely recalled the name Flemeth, but couldn't place who had told him, or when.

He was puzzling out the mystery of this powerful witch when he heard the door to the tavern creak open. He raised his eyes and smiled when Marcelle's pretty face greeted him. He saw that her long hair hung wet and braided down her back, and her face was bright pink from the steam. The fencer's shirt was wet from a combination of the rain and her skin, the cloth nearly transparent where it hugged her shoulders and arms. Dressed in her shirt, blue binder, brown leggings and black boots, she looked surprisingly like a courier. More so than Sebastian did in his mail jacket and armor. If he hadn't seen her legs long and bare to him last night, he would probably have forgotten that she had them, as he was so used to her wearing robes.

"The water is all yours," she said, slipping into the seat across from him. A pale, long-fingered hand crept across the table to his. She seemed to be ignoring the journal that lay closed beside his hand.

Her fingers were wrinkled from the water, but Sebastian was glad for her touch against his skin. "I will just collect my things," he said, "and be on my way then. You may," he eyed the journal, "wish to read through that." Seeing her nod, he darted up stairs to gather his shirt and shaving kit, leaving Marcelle the other half of the bread loaf and the remaining apple jam. By the time he had finished his own bath, she was munching on the last of the bread's crust and was just shutting the journal. Sebastian stretched out his hand to her as he passed, catching her fingers in his and gently pulling her from the table and up the stairs to their room. He noticed that she was clutching the journal tightly to her chest, as though parting from it was physically painful.

She sat on the bed and waited for him as he slipped into his mail jacket, fastened his greaves, chestplate, gorget, gauntlet and pauldron into place. When he looked at her over his shoulder, he saw that she was watching his movements with a studious gaze, looking as though she was memorizing every clasp and leather strap and how they did and didn't fit.

"Your armor is different," she commented.

"It is." Sebastian looked down at himself. Though his chestplate had been extended to his beltline and his pauldron had increased in size, he still found them remarkably easy to move in and was happy for the additional protection to both his face and his gut. His advisors had insisted on the improvements, and having nothing better to do than plot, plan, and brood, he had humored them. "It better protects me."

"I am glad. I like it."

"Even Andraste?" Sebastian's fingers reverently touched the cheek of the Maker's Bride that was emblazoned on his belt.

"Even," Marcelle chuckled, "Andraste."

Sebastian shared in her laughter and turned from her to reach for his weapons. Slinging his quiver and bow on his back, and then double checking that the knives on his belt were securely in place, Sebastian tossed his folded cloak over one shoulder and then gathered the saddlebag into his arms. He tilted his head towards the door, and seeing that Marcelle had fetched the key from the small bedside table, he motioned for her to lead. Following Marcelle out of the hallway and leaving the business of locking the room to her, Sebastian trotted down the stairs. Marcelle followed after him, slipping the heavy key onto the counter. They both gave the tavern keeper gracious smiles as they departed, and each was rewarded by a courteous tilt of the man's head.

Striding out into the rain, Sebastian made his way quickly to the stables. He heard Marcelle's booted feet splashing in the muddy puddles his own boots had made as she tried to follow in his footsteps. He could not imagine what it would be like to be wearing a robe in this sort of weather. It likely taught one how to be patient – and to stride carefully.

He ducked into the covered safety of the stables and headed straight to the stall where their little palfrey was waiting. As Sebastian strapped the pack into place and strode around the palfrey to inspect its legs and insure that they were in good health, Marcelle was busy stroking the palfrey's neck and speaking to it gently.

"You're a good horse," she murmured, "aren't you?"

"He is a very good horse," Sebastian agreed coming up to stand behind her, his inspection of the horse completed. He placed one gentle hand at the curve of her neck and the other on the edge of her shoulder. Between his hand and her body rested the fabric of his cloak, which he fastened around her gently. "This should keep you dry," he said, pulling the hood over the top of her head.

"And what will keep you dry?" Marcelle asked in concern. She spun on the balls of her feet to face him and placed her hands on his cheeks. "I would be fine without the cloak. I will not have you riding in the rain only to catch a chill."

"I also have a hood." There was a shimmer of mischief in his blue eyes as he smiled down at her. He brought his hands over hers and moved them to the thick, fur lined hood around his neck. He bade her lift the hood over his head, and as she did so, he tilted his face down to hers so that they were enveloped in their own world of fur and fabric, the outside merely a memory of sound and flashes of grey light between the meeting of their hoods.

Marcelle's eyes fluttered closed and she wrapped her arms around Sebastian's neck. "If you get sick," she whispered before kissing him, lips warm and urgent on his, "I'll never forgive you."

"I thought," Sebastian murmured between flicks of his tongue against hers, "you could heal anything?"

She rubbed her forehead against his. "You are quoting me out of context," she whispered.

"I," he pressed a heavy kiss of teeth, and tongue, and need to her lips that left them both breathless and sent a fire coursing through his blood, "apologize." One of his hands had snaked its way to the back of her head while the other rested on the small of her back, arching her into him. "I just have…" he struggled to speak, to even _remember _what he wanted to say, as she wrapped her lips around his again and made little keening noises in the back of her throat as she explored his mouth. To concentrate once more, he had to break the veil between their world and the stable by pulling away.

"Drinking problem," she winced in embarrassment, putting a hand to her red and kiss swollen mouth. "I am sorry."

"Never apologize for that," he said with a shake of his head. "But…" He licked at his lips, debating whether or not to continue. "But perhaps when we are further away from Redcliffe, we can…" he flashed her a smile of white teeth and earnest blue eyes, "…pick up where we left off?"

"Provided," Marcelle countered with a quiet sigh, "you have no chill…I would like that." She blushed despite herself, eyelashes lowering in an attempt to hide her embarrassment and bolster her bravado. "I would like that quite a lot."

"Well," Sebastian placed a hand on the palfrey's neck, "we had best get going then, shouldn't we?"

* * *

><p><em>Super quick update for my most patient and loving of readers. iluguiz! <em>Oh man, late nights are so bad, and yet they are so, so good! <em>_


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

Sebastian was a man of his word. As soon as they had found an inn for the night and he seen to the horse's treatment, Sebastian took the opportunity to seclude himself and Marcelle in their bedroom with their supper. They were both thoroughly soaked from the heavy haze of rain they'd been forced to travel under, and the first thing Marcelle did once he put down the tray of food on the edge of the bed was to pad over to him on her bare feet, take his hands in hers, bring them to her lips, and blow warm air across his knuckles.

"Your poor hands," she murmured, placing little kisses along the tips of his fingertips.

Sebastian's eyes drooped in pleasure as the tips of his frozen, wind-bitten fingers began to heat up under Marcelle's tender ministrations. It also helped that her hands were mercifully warm, and Sebastian had never known a time when they were not the exact temperature he needed them to be. After battle, her hands had been blessedly cool against his sweat soaked and sometimes bloodstained brow, and now when the chill had set in, they were hot and loving against his flesh.

"I'll get a fire going in the hearth," she said after a few moments of rubbing, and breathing, and kissing his fingers.

"Always taking care of others," Sebastian mused as he watched her crouch by the room's fireplace and a send a faint spark of orange from her fingertips, "aren't you?"

"It is my duty and my pleasure," she replied in a good natured tone, extending her hands closer to the fire to draw out the flames. Her rain-darkened hair reflected wet hues of red and orange in the firelight.

Sebastian watched with fascination as little licks of fire spread up the backs of her hands before extinguishing into tiny plumes of smoke. "Does that burn you at all?"

"It can, if I am not careful." She stood and rubbed her fire-warmed hands up and down her arms, shivering. She had been riding behind Sebastian, with her arms wrapped around his waist and her legs behind his. Her front had been spared the bitter wind and rain, but her shoulders, arms, thighs, and back had not been so fortunate. The material of her shirt was damp from where the cloak had rested against her. The back of the shirt and her binder were soaked through, as were the thighs of her breeches, and the sleeves of her shirt.

Looking at Sebastian, it was clear he was no better. The heavy wool coat below his mail and armor was sodden and dripping, the fur lining of the hood sticking out in clumps. The front of his pants was also wet from his thighs to his belt buckle. He was equally a damp and miserable mess, though Marcelle looked far better in her predicament than he did.

"We should probably get out of these wet things," Marcelle said, shrugging damp hair over her shoulder, "and lay them to rest in front of the fire so that they'll be dry for tomorrow."

"A…" Sebastian ran his tongue over his lips to wet them, "prudent suggestion." Her suggestion was a practical one, and Sebastian could find no fault in its logic (despite the obvious fact that all his dry clothes were also dirty, which meant that…they might be naked. Together. Alone. In each other's company.). Though his padded jacket kept his mail coat from rubbing his sides and arms raw, it was a burden when wet. His hands were working on prying off his armor when he felt rather than saw Marcelle glide up to him. She rested her hand against his forearm and curled her fingers around his vambraces.

"Do you want some help removing your armor?"

"I can manage," he laid his hand atop hers. "Though if you want to help, I would not stop you."

"Goodness, but this is exciting," she teased gently. Dexterous fingers used to casting spells and mending wounds toyed with clasps and loosened strings. "I get to turn my husband from a warrior into a man once more." She reverently slipped the vambrace from his arm and slid the couter down his forearm and over his hand. Both of these things she placed on the bed, turning her back to him as she arranged them neatly beside their tray of cooling food. She made a sound of protest when she saw that he had removed his pauldron.

"There will be plenty of opportunities in the future," he said as he passed her the pauldron and watched it join its fellow armor pieces on the bed. "The armor is ceremonial, as well as functional."

"So after a long day of watching the armies of Starkhaven march in front of you, you'll return to our quarters and let me undress you? I suppose," she slipped her hands to his waist to work on removing the brilliant enamel breast and back plates, "there is _some_ romantic appeal in that." She rested her chin on his shoulder as her fingers tugged against the leather restraints.

Sebastian trailed his fingers up her spine to her neck and then threaded them into her hair. The damp strands slid easily through his fingers, pulling free from the tight braid as he massaged her scalp. "You seem to have given it a lot of thought."

She plopped a kiss on the edge of his jaw. "I was serious when I said I had waited years for you… Oh, Maker," she growled, "Sebastian, must your armor be so stubborn?"

He chuckled and pulled his hand away from her hair. He lifted his right arm and covered her hand with his. "It is all in the angle," he instructed, pulling the leather strap up and to the side rather than forward as Marcelle had been doing. The leather hissed against the metal buckle as it loosened. He did the same for his other side, watching how Marcelle studiously observed his actions. With the armor loose enough to slip over his head, he slipped his arms out of the leather restraints. Her hands were there on the armor, guiding it off him gently until he stood before her in nothing but his mail, coat, belt, and greaves.

Marcelle slipped her fingers under the edge of his belt, her thumbs brushing against the mail coat playfully. "Will Andraste be offended," she teased, "if I touch her? My hands are less than honest, and so are my intentions!"

"Wife!"

"Husband!" she countered in her innocently dulcet voice, mirroring the same tone of surprise in which he had addressed her.

"You are incorrigible." He brought his hand to her cheek and drew her forehead to his lips. "But I would have you no other way."

Marcelle let out a soft sigh. "I am not really incorrigible, you know. I just sometimes let my tongue run away with me when I am excited." She tilted her head up and placed a soft kiss to the tip of his chin. Her hands came to the center of his belt, fingers tracing the edge of Andraste's face. "And I _am_ excited. Words cannot express the joy I feel. I could die tomorrow, I could be made tranquil, and such fates I would gladly accept because they would not come before I had shared my heart with you."

"I was a fool," Sebastian whispered, pressing his lips to hers. "All that time - "

"No," she protested. Andraste fell to the floor as Marcelle unclasped his belt. "This is not a time for regrets. The past is behind us now. We have only the future," she wrapped her arms around his neck, "to look forward to."

"You are as wise as you are beautiful." Sebastian said this with a measure of awe in his voice. "You must be my reward for the hardships I have endured. I can think of no other reason why I would deserve you…"

"Being a good man is not enough?"

"I spent fifteen years thinking that this life would be lost to me. Good man or not, it was only when the Maker changed my path that this dream became a reality." He sighed and took her face between his hands. "I love you, Marcelle. I did not know until a day ago that I did. Seeing you at the mercy of those Templars…" He seemed at a loss for words. "I could not stand the thought of losing you, even when I was so angry at you and willing to lay the blame of what happened in Kirkwall at your feet."

Marcelle's eyes closed and she tilted her face to kiss the edge of his palm. "Do you want to know when I first fell in love with you?"

"I would be honored to hear it."

She chuckled. "Do you remember when Isabela talked us all into playing Wicked Grace at my estate?"

"Oh," Sebastian winced, "don't remind me. I lost terribly." Sebastian couldn't recall the reasons why he had decided to join Hawke and the others that night, but he had, and he had lost a bit of his pride that night. Isabela and Varric were unsurprisingly proficient players of Wicked Grace and had cleaned everyone of their gold and their clothing. It had been years since Sebastian had played the card game, and though he had been fairly good at in his day, his skill was nothing when compared to the pirate and the dwarf's.

"You did," Marcelle beamed. "But you lost so gracefully for a man stripped to his smalls. And you had this blush," she let out a low peal of laughter as she remembered the sight of Sebastian naked but for the beige of his wrapper and the smattering of hair along his body, "on your cheeks that spread as far as your navel when Isabela told you she had cheated and stacked the deck against you. Mmm," she recalled fondly, "you were so forgiving. I probably would have slapped her silly for embarrassing me, but you smiled and you accepted it…you were not ashamed. That is when I knew that you were worth every lost hour of sleep and every shameful moment of secrecy."

"Did you lose much sleep?"

"At least an hour every night." She raised an eyebrow in challenge. "If not more."

"And how many…" Sebastian's voice dipped low and faltered, forcing him to clear his throat to continue, "shameful moments of secrecy did you have?"

"Moments innumerable."

"I wonder," he replied dryly, "how you ever got anything done."

"I have my ways." A breeze of chilly night air blew in through the window, ruffling the torn and faded curtains. Marcelle shivered as it licked across her body like a lover's tongue, leaving her skin wet and cold in its wake. "But," she tapped her finger to his lips, "it is true, you are very distracting." As if to prove her point, Marcelle knelt before him and returned to removing his armor. Deft fingers pried off Sebastian's greaves. His poleyns came first and were followed by the enamel plates that wrapped around the tops of his high boots, down his shins, and to his toes.

Sebastian's fingers ghosted along the top of her head as she worked, toying with strands of hair that he pulled out of her braid. Every so often, she flashed her eyes up to him from where she knelt in front of him, and Sebastian's blood thrummed in his veins. When she had first dropped to her knees before him, the last thing that had been on his mind was her squirely task. Every time she tilted her face up to look at him, her breath warmed the top of the leg she was working on. With her pretty face ever so close to his most private of places, she only had to lean forward slightly for her to come into contact with his wet breeches and the stiffening length of him just beyond. Mercifully, Marcelle was quickly done with her task.

Gathering the last of his armor into her arms, Marcelle stood and deposited it on the bed. Behind her, Sebastian was removing his mail coat. This he laid flat along the stained dresser and beckoned Marcelle to bring over what she was storing on the bed. He was caught by surprise when, the last of the armor moved to its new home, Marcelle pressed herself against his back and wrapped her arms around his waist.

"And this has to come off too," she murmured against his neck. "There is a special place by the fire for this." Her fingers flirted with the wooden toggles that held his wool coat in place, darting between their gaps to touch the warm material of his soft undershirt. Gently, she unclasped the toggles one by one, peeling the rain-soaked coat as Sebastian groaned in relief. She laid the coat on the floor in front of the fire, straightening the sleeves and fluffing the hood so that the coat would not only dry thoroughly, but would dry neatly.

Sebastian deposited his boots beside the coat and pried off his socks. He laid these over the toes of his boots, unable to stop from jumping at the first touch of the cold wooden floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Marcelle working on the cloth binder around her waist. He moved behind her and returned her earlier favor by wrapping his arms around her waist and drawing her back to lean against his chest. He felt her head fall back against his shoulder, revealing the long curve of her throat to him.

He laid a hand flat against her stomach and closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of the fire's warmth on his cheeks and the coolness of Marcelle's body in his arms. She seemed to be enjoying it too, for she rested perfectly still in his arms, as if she dared not to move lest she break. Slowly, Sebastian's fingers stroked up and down the length of the seam of the binder, and he thought he heard her whisper, "Oh, Maker," though it was so quiet it could have been his imagination. His fingers teased their way around the leather ties that held it shut, dipping between their seams to tickle at the soft skin of her belly that was warm and soft beneath the thin layer of the fencer's shirt.

"I had a dream like this," she whispered.

"Did you now, wife?"

Marcelle giggled at the title. "I did…" she sighed when he pried open the binder enough to wedge his hand beneath it and kneaded his fingertips along her stomach, "I find that dreams pale in comparison to reality."

Sebastian brushed his lips behind her ear and felt Marcelle quiver and shake. "You're shivering. Are you cold, wife?" He knew that she probably was not and placed another kiss at the back of her jaw.

"Yes," Marcelle's hands reached up to grab at his shoulders.

"Well, then," Sebastian dragged the last of the strings from their holes and pulled the binder away from the curve of her waist, "it is my duty as your betrothed to warm you up." He tossed the binder behind him somewhere on the bed to free his hands. These he placed at her hips, skirting them up and down her sides as he pulled the wet fencer's shirt out from the waistband of her breeches on each pass up her body. He gave a low chuckle when Marcelle's feet stamped on the floor and she squirmed in his arms. "Patience," he scolded, slipping his hand underneath the hem of her shirt.

She jumped at the sudden contact of his callused fingers along her skin and pulled away in surprise. Her hips bumped against his, her rear grinding against Sebastian's arousal. He had until that point been able to keep his rather traitorous body under control. Semi-stiff and with the best of intentions, he'd been able to tease and not go too far, but the sudden pressure and rubbing of Marcelle's bottom against him was his swift undoing.

He knew that Marcelle was aware of his desire by the way she stilled when she encountered it, body stiffening just as surely as he did.

"I'm sorry," he apologized, but she shook her head and turned so that she rested chest to chest with him.

"I am not sorry. Maker, Sebastian," she turned and swiftly took his face in her hands, "there is nothing wrong about it. Nothing wrong about this. You are to be my husband. What sort of marriage might we have if I did not stir your blood and you did not stir mine?"

"A chaste one." He winced when the words came out of his mouth. "That sounded bad even to me."

"If you wanted a chaste marriage - "

"I don't," Sebastian replied quickly. "But I do want a marriage, to have a bride other than Andraste."

"Careful," Marcelle's eyes darted to where Sebastian's belt was resting, "she might hear you."

"Unfortunately, she knows my intent all too well." His voice was wry and he sighed. His hands had returned to their place on her waist and his thumbs smoothed the edges of her shirt. "And my intentions toward you."

"Then she should know they come from a pure heart." Marcelle trailed her fingers down the tops of his cheeks to the curve of his jaw. "And that the act itself is pure."

Sebastian had never heard speak so frankly or openly about sex, and whatever preconceptions he'd had of her experience before were now gone with her innocent beliefs. He quirked his eyebrow in surprise, and was scolded for his incredulous expression with a frown of Marcelle's brows.

"It _is_ true, though. It is the ultimate physical union of two people, a melding of flesh, heartbeat, and breath," her features softened, "that can only be transcended by the merging of souls at the Maker's side. Perhaps," she licked her lips and gave herself a moment to put her thoughts together, "it is abused for the sake of pure pleasure by some, but there is nothing inherently wrong in the act. Only in the intent behind it."

His hands dipped under her shirt again and slipped up her back. He stroked the curve of her spine with his fingertips. "I don't disagree, and now that I am older I find myself embracing such a view." He smiled at her tenderly. "You've no doubt overheard my conversations with Isabela and Varric." He chuckled when he saw her bite her lip in a gesture of comical embarrassment: it was clear she had, "I was a feckless wastrel when I was younger. I squandered my wealth and my body, giving myself up to the mindless pursuit of pleasure. It did not matter to me who it was, or what the repercussions were, only that I was satisfied. And that is why," he curved his hands over her shoulders, feeling the soft skin and the faint rippling of scars, "I would wait. You may be willing to give yourself to me now - "

"Are willing," she corrected gently, placing her hands on his chest.

Sebastian exhaled through his teeth at her admission, surprised at how one simple word could heat up his cheeks and make his palms moist, "You are willing to give yourself to me now," he amended, "but for all of my past sinning, I would wait. I could take you right here," he placed his forehead against hers, "in front of the fire. We could make love amidst our discarded clothes and our armor, and drench ourselves in sweat so that we'd both catch a chill come the morning." He felt Marcelle's fingertips dig into skin, saw the way her eyes widened and her mouth parted, "You could ride me as you do our horse in the stables and I could stroke at your center until you sang your release. I could take you on all fours and watch as you bury your face into your arms, raising your hips for me. And in both cases, I would spend myself inside you and perhaps my seed would take root before we returned to Starkhaven… It," he shuddered, "it would be lustful, and without restraint…and it would merely be me giving into old temptations once more. I…cannot, Marcelle. Not yet. Not until Starkhaven. Not until you are crowned."

Marcelle looked at a loss for words. Her mouth hung open, her brow was wrinkled, and her eyes had turned nearly black in the dim light. Her fingers pressed hard against his chest where she had clung to him for purchase. "Why would you say such things to me then? Do you intend to be cruel? To _torment _me with things that I cannot _have_?"

"Oh, Maker, no," Sebastian shook his head and pressed a quick kiss to her lips, silencing whatever other protests she might make with the plunging of his tongue into her mouth. The painful curling of her fingers into the flesh of his chest was replaced by the wrapping of her arms around his neck. She sent one slender leg curling behind his thighs, forcing herself against him in a whispering of breath and fabric. "Do not think that I don't want you," he said, drawing his lips a hair's width away from hers, "I do." He placed a hand below her bottom and drew her flush against him for emphasis, "but to go any further makes me unworthy of you."

"I respect that," she squeezed her eyes shut, "just do not tease me so. I was _so good_," she pleaded, "for so many years _I was so good! _I did my best to never bother or tempt you intentionally…"

"You did not," he agreed, placing kisses on her closed eyelids. "And those good deeds will not go unrewarded." The hand at her rear squeezed it teasingly. "I may not permit myself to have you…but I would not see you suffer unduly on my behalf."

"What - " Marcelle gave a small gasp of surprise as one arm wrapped around the thigh she had lifted against his leg, lifting her clean from the floor. Her other leg fixed itself around his waist for balance. She let out a half squawk – half giggle as he turned around and marched her over to the bed.

He looked at her with the smirk he saved for expert shots of his bow before settling her down on the stiff mattress with its musty fur blanket. When she was safely deposited, he swept her binder away to the floor with a flick of his wrist, and slipped the tray of now cold food and drink he'd brought on top of the wooden chest at the foot of the bed. Marcelle had her knees drawn to her chest and was watching him from the other side of the bed with something akin to fear on her face. Her pink toes were curled into the fur of the blanket, as were her fingers.

Sebastian slipped onto the bed beside her, resting on his side. He crooked a finger at her to come closer, and when she did, he guided her so that she rested with her back to his chest. "There are some things," Sebastian whispered, "that I can do for you that would neither break my promise nor put you in danger of conceiving a child…" He trailed two fingers from her temple to her shoulder, skirting the skin with fingertip and nail. He heard her breathing quicken at the simple touch.

"Would it not be unfair?" Marcelle asked. Sebastian's hand had drawn up the edge of her shirt and his warm palm was gliding along her skin. It came to rest on her ribs where his fingers teased the edge of her breast band. "Surely, I should not receive pleasure while you are - "

"There are more pleasures in life than just those of the body," Sebastian assured with a gentle nip to her earlobe, "and I do not need physical pleasure to be satisfied."

She gave a small noise low in her throat as his wandering fingers found the pebbled bud of a nipple, stroking the hardened tip through the thin layers of cloth.

"It eases my heart and my soul," he continued, circling the tip gently, "to see you well taken care of. It is my responsibility to take care of all your needs. Including," he smirked against her skin, "your need for me."

"You…" Marcelle ground out, shivering in the ache of him. She rubbed her thighs together, using the friction of the fabric against her skin as a balm for the pain of her longing. "You are…" Her eyes fluttered shut as one of his large, warm hands cupped itself over the breast band, grasping a breast in its entirety. "Everything I have ever wanted."

Touched by her words, Sebastian nuzzled the side of her neck and planted kisses up her jaw, to the corner of her mouth, and then finally to her lips. His tongue danced with hers as his fingers teased and traced the swell of a breast through its covering. He teasingly let one finger slip beneath the fabric and tickled its underside with long, slow strokes. "Soft," he murmured in reverence, "like a cloud." He drew his fingers back down her ribs to rest along the smooth skin of her stomach. "Or a dream."

"Not a dream," Marcelle protested, her head falling back, "dreams are not warm. They do not breathe…or feel, or - _Maker_! " She let out a small squeak of surprise when Sebastian's intrepid fingers wiggled below the edge of her pants, testing the tightness of her belt. "D-dreams only tease and promise and torment. They do _not _touch like that."

"I have no intention of teasing." Sebastian pulled apart the knot of the sash she had tied to keep his pants in place. He then returned to his exploration, following the slope of her stomach until he found the tops of her smalls, "or tormenting. Promising on the other hand…" he slid his middle finger down between her thighs, coaxing them apart with his other fingers. He chuckled as she bucked against his hand and sighed her pleasure, her murmurs growing husky as he felt her dampness through her small clothes. He imagined that if he were to draw them to one side, she might spill out around his hand, all slick and pink like a rose covered in dew. He could not stop the way his hips ground against hers at the feel of her readiness.

"This is what you do to me," she crooned, rocking her hand against his hips, "when you look at me, when you touch me…"

"Moments innumerable," Sebastian repeated her earlier words, "of shameful secrecy…" He rested his palm on her pelvis and drew a lazy circle over her smalls where he knew the center of her arousal was hidden. "Kept awake, thinking of me…"

"_Maker_," she sighed, "yes. _Yes_."

Sebastian made a tsking sound and stopped his slow, rhythmic stroking. "That's blasphemous, wife." He kissed her cheek fondly when he heard her cry of frustration. He couldn't stop himself from laughing when he felt her thighs press together tightly, "It is wrong to tease you, I'm sorry."

In retaliation, Marcelle rubbed her rear against the bulge of his arousal, arching her back until he was bumping against her covered entrance. She let out a sigh of triumph when Sebastian pinned her in place and moved against her, forgetting himself as he tangled their legs together and pistoned his hips roughly.

"You," he growled, "are a temptress."

"Princes in glass houses," she countered breathlessly, "should not cast stones."

Sebastian shut his eyes and buried his face in the back of her neck. His lips worked against her nape, his teeth scraping and bruising skin as he fought for his composure; he was not so far gone that he could not control himself, but he was fast reaching a point where he would be unable to stop. It had been _too long _for him.

At a sudden, forceful press of her bottom, he kissed her skin feverishly and less gently than he should have. A momentary pang of guilt passed through him at the thought of hurting her, but he pushed it away. He would worry about the marks on her neck later – later, when she was glowing in pleasure, wrapped in his arms, and whispering curious little anecdotes about how she felt to him.

To still the movement of her hips against his, he pushed aside the fabric of her smalls and ran his finger down the dewy channel of her sex. His fingers tangled in her curls and her lust, stroking the sensitive bud of flesh at her apex with slow, languid movements. Though Sebastian's fingers were more used to plucking bow strings than the fine harp of the body, Marcelle still sung for him. Her exultations were quiet, breathless moans and half-whispered encouragements of "yes" and "please." He saw her hand come up to rest beside her head, its fingers digging into the bed as she cried out for him.

Her hips struggled to meet the motions of his hand, arching and twisting for more when he made lazy circles at her bud, and holding perfectly still as he began to pick up his pace. For a few moments he grew daring and slid his fingers to her opening, sending one finger in to the first joint, but at the cry she made and the way her chest heaved, he had to stop. If he took her down that path, he would never be able to return the way he came. He returned to his intimate caresses, though from the way her hips jutted upwards it was clear her body had not forgotten his earlier experimentation. "Later," he promised, licking the shell of her ear. "I swear."

It was not long before he had Marcelle at her shatterpoint. Her moans and murmurs had become softer (though they had not been loud to begin with), and her eyes had shut. However, her body belied her outwardly calm exterior. Her legs were tensed and strained against his, her toes curling against his ankles as she struggled for purchase in a world that was quickly being turned on its head. Sebastian's fingers danced along her sensitive sex faster as he shepherded Marcelle along to her ending. With a hoarse whisper of, "_Sebastian_!" her release came like the unveiling of a gift, the strands of her control coming undone as a ribbon on a package. "I…" she whispered, her body shaking and trembling in the aftermath.

"I love you," he whispered in her ear, having anticipated her words. "And I promise that I will share every earthly moment with you." He slipped his hand out of her pants and wiped his fingers on the edge of his shirt before laying the hand on her heart. He held her tightly to his chest, listening to her breathing become even and slow. "No man or mage will ever come between us."

Marcelle curled into the embrace of his arms, shifting so that she rested with her head on his shoulder. Her legs tangled with his in a serpent's knot, and she gave a possessive moan when he repositioned her arm from over his chest to down his stomach. "Faith was right. The Maker," she murmured sleepily, "really does listen to the prayers of mages."

Sebastian only smiled at that and placed a kiss to her temple. Marcelle was not long for the land of dreams, and when Sebastian closed his eyes and matched his breathing to hers, he found that he was not long either.

8-8-8

Faith was waiting for Marcelle in the same spot he always did – and just as it had happened every time before – Marcelle arrived.

"You look…" Faith eyed Marcelle up and down, unsure what to make of her, "happy?"

Marcelle ghosted over to him on her tiptoes, threw her arms around his neck, and planted loud kisses all over his helmet. "He _loves me!" _she twittered. "And he wants to _marry _me! Oh, Faith!" She released him and twirled about him. "You were right! You were right."

Faith turned and watched her spin across the dreamscape, the mist of the Fade spinning and parting at her passing. He could not remember a time when he had ever seen her so…happy. "Fledgling?"

"Sebastian." Marcelle danced back to him. She took his hands in hers. "The one with all the Faith. The prince-turned-priest?"

"I know him."

"He…came to find me." She beamed. "Originally he wanted to kill me, yes, but we spoke, and we've reconciled our differences. You were right."

Faith made a sound of disapproval. "Of course I was right. If you have Faith, anything is possible."

Marcelle only laughed and launched herself into his arms again. "Thank you, Faith."

"You're welcome," Faith replied, putting his arms around Marcelle's body – waist – stiffly. He remembered Malcolm used to pat his hand against his Marcelle's back, having scene memories of him from her, and so he emulated the Elder Hawke's movement. "But you have nothing to thank me for."

"I have everything to thank you for," Marcelle drew back; the grin she wore was wider than could have been possible. "I just want you to know that no matter what happens between Sebastian and me... I will always care for you."

"Thank you, Fledgling."

With that confession, Marcelle turned her eyes towards the distant dreamscape, to the great, heaving towers that littered the Fade. "So." She chuckled. "Do you want to go hunt demons?"

Faith did want to hunt demons. He had not hunted them in what felt like weeks. Many demons had started to make their homes in the areas surrounding Marcelle's entrance to the Fade, likely having sensed something they wanted in his plucky, even-tempered mage. Faith had seen their hulking, lumbering shapes lurking in the veil of shadows beyond the bright, white campfire he kept lit as a beacon for Marcelle. He had not gone out to drive them away; fearing what would happen if he left his post. But now that Marcelle was here… "Yes."

Marcelle chuckled. "Excellent. Let's go vanquish some evil."

Faith led the way.

* * *

><p><em>Yes. We continue to sail on this sea, though I do foresee some dark clouds on the horizon...<em>

_Cloud, Shakespira, Josie, and Enaid, you ladies are seriously lovely. Faith sends you kisses. If he could. (He can't. But he would if he could.)_

_And also, we have Chapter 37 of _Trovommi Amor _in the pipes, you can expect that sometime soon. Maybe midweek of next week, or Monday. We'll see how much writing I get done. Oh! And before I forget, I do have to plug _The Grey Tales, _which I cowrote with Gene Dark and Shakespira, and that can be found under our combined penname Genespira Cold (alternatively, you can just search for the story using Alistair and Duncan as your main characters!). _TGT _is massively awesome, and is about the founding of the Grey Wardens. If you like reading loreish stories, you will like reading this. And if you aren't already enticed by the story, I have only one word for you: GRIFFONS. _TGT _has griffon riding. :)_


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

Sebastian was once more the first to awaken. This time, he was not drawn out of sleep by the pattering of rain and the growing light of the room. No, what pulled him into consciousness was the snuffling and gentle snoring of the woman in his arms, as well as the sudden presence of a very possessive leg being draped over his thighs. A very possessive _naked _thigh. A soft, warm, supple thigh… Sebastian reached out for it, keeping his eyes closed as he allowed his fingernails to trace gentle patterns back and forth along Marcelle's flank.

Last night had been a good night. It had shocked him, perhaps just as much as it had shocked her, but there was no shame associated with it. Sebastian had made his intentions clear, and he had also made a promise. He would not consummate their relationship until she was Princess of Starkhaven, and it was a promise that Marcelle had agreed to (with some gentle persuasion). He could not help the happy, satisfied tug of his lips as he recalled her expressions the previous night: her parted lips, her half-lidded eyes, the way her tongue rested over her teeth as though she was searching for rain drops in summer…

Yes, it had been a very good night indeed.

Opening his eyes, Sebastian glanced down to where Marcelle's face was curled into the crook of his shoulder. Her face was tilted upwards towards him, and Sebastian could not resist tracing the profile of her cheek and nose with a fingertip. She had gained some wrinkles, lines that spread out from the corners of her eyes and crossed across her forehead – wrinkles that could not even be hidden while she was in repose. Power and responsibility was taking its toll on her youthfulness, but Sebastian found that he liked the look of her. Her mother, if he remembered, had not had the firmest of skin, but that had not diminished Leandra Hawke's beauty. The deceased widow had possessed a grace and charm that Marcelle had inherited, and it was that, coupled with her gentle charisma, that was truly beautiful about her. Besides, Sebastian was no longer a young man, and had wrinkles and frown lines to match hers. They were a perfect pair, as far as he was concerned.

At his touch, she stirred. Long eyelashes fluttered upward, as did the corners of her mouth. The thigh she had draped over him was pulled taught as she stretched her leg over the bed. From the corner of his eye, he saw her toes slip out from under the blankets and wiggle in the morning sunshine.

"So," he heard her say, "I _wasn't _dreaming?"

"Indeed, you were not." Sebastian pushed her hair away from her forehead, taking whatever excuse he could to caress her. "Did you sleep well?"

"Better than I have in a long time."

"As did I."

There was no way for Sebastian to resist the compulsion to mirror the large smile he saw on her face. And so he did not try. He grinned at her – and she grinned back at him. They were a pair of grinning fools. He was even content to stay that way, but Marcelle's stomach had either ideas. It rumbled quite loudly, reminding the pair of them they had skipped their dinner last in favor of savoring each other.

"Curse this desire to eat," Marcelle protested with a theatrical sigh. "I was enjoying this."

"We'll have other moments to just rest in each other's arms." Sebastian let his thumb over her lip before he removed his hand. He was saddened when the comforting weight of Marcelle's leg left his body, her leg slithering across his own to rejoin its twin. He settled back against the flat pillows of the bed, watching as Marcelle shifted and sat up. The shirt he had given her hung loose over the edge of one white shoulder, and as she crawled hand over knee and knee over hand to the edge of the bed where Sebastian had left their dinner, he saw the curves of her rear and the cloth covered junction just below them.

Marcelle seemed to know exactly the view he was seeing, for she arched her back as she dipped forward to pick up the tray. She confirmed it when, turning to face him and settling the tray on the bed, she was smirking.

"Temptress," Sebastian said, sitting forward so that his elbows rested on his knees. Below the covers, he could feel himself stirring. He had awoken hard, and had softened slowly as he had observed his sleeping bride-to-be, but now he was stiffening again.

"Pot meet kettle," she replied back sweetly. She pushed the tray towards him with her long, white fingers. "Better cold than not at all." Marcelle fluttered her eyelashes at him, and then took one of the cold bowls of vegetable stew in hand.

As he had done on their first night together, Sebastian watched her eat. She was quite delicate in her movements, plucking up the crust of bread and pinching pieces off it to dip into the stew. She ate methodically - scooping up the lumps of mushrooms first, pink tongue flicking out to lick them clean and then white teeth grabbing an edge to draw it into her mouth, before she moved onto the various colored flecks, until all that was left were the potatoes. These she scooped up with her spoon. Sebastian made no such distinction about what was in his bowl. It was all the same to him; the flavors having blended together into some indescribable pulp.

Their breakfast passed in silence, but it was not unpleasant. Just as Sebastian observed Marcelle, he found that she was also observing him. Every so often, Sebastian would catch her dark blue eyes fluttering to his face, and upon being spotted, flutter back down to her breakfast. They'd return to his face again soon enough, and he'd catch her gaze, raise his eyebrows at her coyness, and offer a wry grin. These exchanges caused Marcelle to beam and burst out into a peal of girlish laughter each time. He joined in her snickering, taking solace in her company and her mirth.

When breakfast was finished, Sebastian made his way downstairs to pay for their rooms. Not only was Sebastian holding all of their coin, he was also the less conspicuous of their strange pairing. Though he had a pronounced Marcher's accent, he had a very good cover story for being in Ferelden. He was also unlikely to draw the stares of the inn's patrons. Marcelle was a comely lass, and too pretty, in Sebastian's eyes, to easily escape the notice of men (and jealous women). Her accent was also a curious blend of the regional Kirkwall upper crust as well as common Ferelden, and the inconstancy was bound to create questions which Sebastian would otherwise prefer to avoid.

He had just placed the gold coins in payment for his room and board on the counter when there came a sudden shuffling and shouting from the streets outside. The braying of horses and the jangling of heavy armor against thick leather passed in front of the inn, as well as the deep, sonorous chatter of baritone voices in deep helmets. It was a continual stream of noise, having started off as the quiet clattering of hooves, which had now progressed into the aforementioned din. It reminded Sebastian of those few times when groups of Templars had come to pay their respects to the Grand Cleric.

And if those were indeed men of the Templar Order riding by...

"What is going on out there?" he asked of the innkeeper.

The old man shrugged, his fingers nervously worrying and plucking at his graying beard. "Templars have been riding through here all night. Been keeping me and the missus up. Surprised they didn't wake you up too."

"Templars?" A trickle of fear rolled down Sebastian's spine as his suspicions were confirmed, "That's odd," he lied. "We're not anywhere near a Circle Tower, are we?" Feigning ignorance was easy, since he was not Ferelden, and thus did not know much about the country in terms of its relative geography (he knew enough that the Circle Tower was close by, but he had no idea about the names of the surrounding little villages).

"Aye, we are. The Tower's in the middle of Lake Calenhad, a day and a bit's straight ride from here." The innkeeper looked quickly to the door and then hunched over the long bar that separated him from Sebastian. He pitched his voice into a conspiratorial whisper. "Just between you and me, there are nasty rumors coming from that place. Lots of people suspect the mages are getting antsy with the increased Templar presence in Ferelden. They think they're a free Circle, and they don't like being watched."

Sebastian was grateful for the almost universal need for innkeepers to gossip with their patrons. "Is that where the Templars are going, do you think?"

"Well," the innkeeper shrugged his thin shoulders and continued to pluck and pull at his beard, "If I had to venture a guess, I'd say that's most certainly where they're heading to. I suspect you'll be seeing a lot of them on the road. The missus overhead them earlier this morning as a lot of them were passin' by. They were saying they were marching an army this way."

Sebastian forced himself to smile and to maintain an air of reserved confusion. "Really? An _army_? Maker bless you, but business will be good for you then, my friend."

"Aye," the innkeeper grinned, "so it shall." He turned his attention to counting the coins Sebastian had placed on the counter, scooping them into the palm of his hand and biting their edges. "You're leaving us then?"

"We'll be out of your hair in a few hours," Sebastian explained before heading back up the stairs to his room, "the lady isn't feeling very well this morning."

The inn keeper only groused something and counted the gold coins in his palm again.

Sebastian opened the door to their room as quietly as he could, fearing that the Templars marching their way outside might hear even the floorboards creaking below his feet. Slipping in and shutting the door behind him as gently as he had opened it, he assessed their situation. There was not much left to do - while he was downstairs, Marcelle had taken the opportunity to pack most of their things. One of the few remaining objects in Sebastian's saddlebag was his comb, and this she was using to untangle the knots in her hair. The gold of her hair caught the morning sunlight that was shining through the holes in the curtains, and Sebastian could not help but pad towards her on silent feet and run trembling fingers through her locks as he told her what he had heard. He felt Marcelle's body stiffen at the news and he let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "I didn't mean to alarm you, my love."

"I know." Marcelle licked her lips in thought. "We need to leave as soon as those Templars go."

"And we need to stay off the roads. My bow and your magic will not save us from an army of Templars."

"I know," she repeated. She closed her eyes and reached up, gathering his hands in hers. She planted a kiss to the flat of his palm. Her lips were warm against his own heated skin. "Sebastian, I want you to promise me something."

"Anything."

"If we are captured," she said quietly, raising her face to look him in the eye, "you will let them take me."

Sebastian wasn't sure he'd heard her right. "Let them _take _you?"

"Yes."

He shook his head. "Absolutely not. I take it back. I won't promise you that."

"No," Marcelle's grip around his hand tightened, "Sebastian, you don't understand. If they find us, if they try to separate us, they will _kill _you if you try to stop them. I will not let that happen. I will not let you die - least of all for _me._"

"And I," he kneeled in front of her and took her face in his hands, "will _not _let them take you. I have no intention of dying, but I've also no intention of merely stepping aside and letting my betrothed face Tranquility, or worse, _death._" He exhaled a tired, frustrated sigh. "I came this far to find you, and I will go even further if it means you will be safe. You are infinitely precious to me, Hawke."

"Marcelle," she corrected sadly.

"Marcelle," he amended. "You are infinitely precious to me. Starkhaven would be a prison with no windows and no doors if you are not there beside me."

"That is the crux of the matter," she argued. "Starkhaven needs you. It doesn't need me. If the choice has to be made to leave me or to fight for me, please just leave me. Let no blood be shed on my behalf. I know what I am."

"Do not ask such things of me." He frowned. "_I _need you."

"I need you too. But more importantly," she smiled, "I need you to live. Starkhaven needs you to live. But come," she leaned forward and placed a chaste kiss against his lips, steering the conversation in her typical fey, mercurial way, "we are arguing over a future we may never encounter, and we are losing our chance at escape."

Sebastian groaned when she followed her words with a second kiss, this one not so chaste. Her tongue tickled his lips and slipped into his mouth, and his fingers curled into the hair at her temples as her head tilted back.

"Do not think," she whispered against his lips, "that I seek death. I do not; I have so much to live for. So much more left to do..." They curved upward playfully, and placed a kiss on the tip of his nose. "Now, do we go out the front door, or the window?"

"I was thinking," Sebastian said, eyeing the window, "that we would watch from the window and then make use of the door. The innkeeper might find it suspicious if we don't leave the way we came. He may be paid, but he will want the key back, and it would be strange if he were to find this room unlocked, us gone, and our key left behind."

"True." Marcelle gave an amused chuckle as she considered the scene he had painted. "How long do you think we shall be watching for?"

"I don't know," Sebastian admitted. "I have yet to see the quality of the troops passing through, let alone their number. If they _are _an army, I imagine that they'll be marching in staggered platoons, if they aren't all marching together."

"Well," point to the window, Marcelle said, "I suppose you had better look then, hmm?"

Sebastian nodded and straightened from his position kneeling on the floor. He crept to the window, pulling back the curtains enough so that he could place his eye to the gap between them. They had a room with a view to the inn's front courtyard, which rested flush against the road with no wall and no land between the establishment, the stables, and the trade route. It was noisy, but highly convenient, which is why despite the inn's location at the outskirts of town and its shabby interior it could be so expensive.

From his vantage point, he could see Templars trotting down the main avenue of the West Road. They came in little bundles every few minutes and looked less like a cohesive army than they did fragmented regiments of men. In observing the first five contingents of Templars that passed, Sebastian could discern no specific pattern in terms of their timing. It was most likely that, in order to cover the most ground as possible without losing their fighting edge, the individual units were allowed to set their own pace. Of course, Sebastian had seen the Templars training, and he knew from firsthand experience that they were strong, well-equipped, and did not tire easily. This army was moving quickly.

Letting caution and prudence temper his fear, Sebastian remained perched against the window for several hours more, until it seemed as though they had come at last to the end of their ranks. The Templars were now only trickling down the road one unit at a time very quarter hour or so, and given that it was midday, it was likely that the Templars would be breaking very shortly to rest and regroup. It was both an opportunity and a threat: if the Templars stopped, Sebastian and Marcelle had a large enough window to put some distance between themselves and the road. It was a threat because at any moment, one of those passing Templar groups could have decided they wanted to stop in at the nearest tavern for their break. The nearest tavern, in this case, happened to be the one Marcelle and Sebastian were currently occupying. They had to act quickly.

Sebastian drew away from the window and turned to Marcelle. She had gone very quiet, and he thought she might have taken to reading the Knight-Guardian's journal. But she was not. She was, instead, asleep. He roused her gently, placing tender hands on her shoulders to gently shake her. When he saw her eyes open and her face immediately contort into a mix of concern when her mind cleared, Sebastian let her be. As she collected herself, he clambered into his armor and shouldered his saddlebag. Marcelle had already dressed, and there was now nothing left to do, save lock the door to the room and return the key to the innkeeper.

This they did swiftly, each sending the innkeeper a kind smile before they ducked their heads and stepped into the shadows of the stable. Sebastian saddled the horse as Marcelle checked it for injuries, and when both tasks were done, they climbed atop the palfrey's broad back. The horse was thankfully unmolested and in good spirits as they saddled him and rode him away from the road and into the countryside.

Sebastian took them along a grassy shepherd's path he'd found on his way to Redcliffe after Marcelle. From the cover of the scraggly, spring high-grass, both he and Marcelle could watch the road and yet remain a discreet part of the countryside. The land was gentle and sloping around them, and Sebastian understood now why the bannorn was called the bread basket of Ferelden. A landscape of brown, muddy fields stretched out beside and in front of their eyes, showing the promise of Ferelden's fertility. Riding as fast as he had on his way to Redcliffe, Sebastian had ignored the view. He wasn't ignoring it now; this was the land were Marcelle grew up. Ignoring it would be like ignoring Marcelle herself.

As if she guessed that he was thinking about her, Marcelle shifted behind him. She rested her chin on his shoulder and pressed her cheek to the curve of his jaw. Her arms were wrapped around his midsection, her hands splayed across his chest as she hugged herself close to him as they rode. Though they were separated by layers of clothing and armor, Sebastian could still feel the heat of her against his body. Whether it was because she had cast a spell, or he could remember the feel of her skin beneath his hands, he wasn't sure. All he knew is that she was _there _and she was _warm _against the chilly wind that nipped at his cheeks and nose and sent the mane of the horse whipping in the wind. He imagined it was not so different for her, and in his mind's eye he could see her hair trailing behind them in the wind like some golden pennant, her cheeks flushed from the snapping breeze…looking much as they had the night before, all rosy and worked.

Sebastian pressed his knees into the horse's side and urged it to go faster, trying to put thoughts of the previous night's activities out of his head. Seeing Marcelle writhing pink and wanton in his arms had nearly been the end of him. It had taken every ounce of his not inconsiderable control to keep himself checked and in his trousers. Lesser men than Sebastian would probably have pinned the soaked and sighing Marcelle into the bed with their hips and plowed her fields just as surely as the farmers in the sleepy cottages they saw in the distance were about to start on theirs. He knew he would have many similar nights in the future with her, where he would go to bed unfulfilled in body but spent in heart and soul. But he was willing to have those nights if it meant that he could take her to bed as a man responsible enough to check and control his passions.

Loving Marcelle – his bride – his wife - his princess – was not something he would do casually or idly. She deserved _nothing _less than the best of him, and his best was exactly what he would give her.

They continued to ride along the shepherd's path and did not stop until the day had nearly waned. The sun was setting on the horizon and had made the world awash in flame when they dismounted and made camp in the shadows of some large rocks. They were a mile's walk from the road, but both Sebastian and Marcelle knew that any sort of fire would attract attention in the dark, no matter how far away they were. Sebastian was ready to settle without one and suffer a cold night, but Marcelle had gathered stones and was heating them with her magic. She passed one of the warm rocks to him, explaining that the heat would last for the most of the night.

"Heat it hot enough," she chuckled, "and we could cook dinner on them, too."

"Not much game," Sebastian lamented as he looked upon the darkening landscape, "to hunt around here. Especially at this hour."

"At least you still have hardtack," Marcelle stood from where she was crouching beside him amidst her pile of gathered stones and sauntered to their horse. She rummaged through the saddlebags until she found the cloth wrapped bundle of food and turning back to Sebastian she laughed when she saw his face wrinkled in disgust. "You do not like hardtack? You have never complained before!"

"I have been eating it for _days_. Weeks even."

"Oh," she pursed her lips, "that is such a lie. Why, if I recall last night, you had a vegetable stew."

"As _I _recall it," Sebastian could not stop the smirk that spread across his features, "I did not eat it last night. I ate it for breakfast. We went to bed _without _supper." The smirk only widened when he saw Marcelle's cheeks color. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders as she settled down beside him.

She pushed the bundle into his lap and took one of the stones she had heated in her hands. "What sorts of food do you like to eat in Starkhaven?" she asked, resting her head on his shoulder. She twisted the stone around in her fingers. "Do you dine on goose? Or swan like the Empress of Orlais is rumored to? Or is it oxen? Or venison? Is there a tax on deer? Is it..." there was a hint of teasing in her voice, "a crime to poach from the Prince's lands?"

Sebastian chuckled and plucked apart the thick cloth bundle, the white fabric falling away like the petals of a flower. "No, there is no crime for such a thing; nor is there is a tax on deer. And," he snatched up one of the burly little biscuits his cook had given him before he'd left, "my favorite dinner is fish and egg pie."

"Fish and egg pie?"

"Aye, it is a Starkhaven delicacy." He let out a sigh of longing as he bit cautiously into the hardtack, careful not to bite too quickly or suddenly for the sake of his teeth. The biscuit was hard and crumbly, but it did what it was supposed to: its dry, dense mouthfuls made Sebastian feel full with only a few bites. "Three deboned fish caught from the Minanter River, cooked in a porcelain vessel with boiled eggs, dried fruit, spices, and thickened cream, topped with a crust as light and buttery as you've ever tasted."

"That sounds…" Marcelle's stomach rumbled audibly and she dropped the stone and reached for her own piece of hardtack, "_delicious._"

"Are you humoring me?" Sebastian asked with a raised eyebrow. "I explained the dish to Isabela and Merrill once, and they both turned their noses up at it."

"Well, neither of them has particularly _refined _palates," Marcelle grinned. "Merrill eats tree bark, and Isabela finds these," she held up the hardtack, "things absolutely delicious. I hardly think they'd be the best judges of food. Truthfully, while I am wary at the idea of combining eggs and dried fruit, I imagine the dish is quite delicious and would be more than willing to try it. After all," she struggled to break the hard biscuit with her fingers, "it has to be better than this." After some length, she zapped the biscuit with her magic, and it split into two halves.

"Right you are, my love." Sebastian drew her tighter against his side, "right you are." He continued to work his teeth around the biscuit, gnawing away at it in little swipes until he'd managed to eat about three quarters of it. The rest of the biscuit he placed atop the heated rock by his hip.

Marcelle was still struggling with her biscuit, using little bursts of her magic to break it down to a manageable size. She'd not even started to eat when Sebastian had finished is, and for all her usual appetite, it seemed to be lacking. She closed her eyes and licked her lips longingly. "I could probably make that dish," Marcelle said after a long moment of silence.

"My grandmother used to make it all the time for my grandfather. I imagine," he dropped a kiss to the top of her head, "that I could have my cooks Clarissa and Jenn show you how." Sebastian had not been surprised to find the two ladies still working in the Vael Palace upon his return. They had been there for as long as he remembered.

"Excellent. I would like that."

"I am surprised though..." Sebastian looked at her curiously. "Do you even like to cook?" Sebastian knew that Marcelle could cook, having heard from Anders and Varric that she was not a particularly bad one (he had been quite jealous to think that she had invited them to eat dinner with her, and not him, but then this had been before they had met). But just because she could cook, didn't mean she had any inclination to.

"Sometimes." Marcelle dug her thumbnail into a piece of her dinner. "My father used to do all the cooking when he was alive, and I learned much of what I know from him. When he died…I did all the cooking. It was a chore, and a painful one. It always reminded me of what we had lost in my father."

"Ah," Sebastian replied quietly. ""And when you came to Kirkwall?"

She winced. "I still did all the cooking."

Sebastian wiped the crumbs away from his fingertips and took Marcelle's chin between his fingers. "You probably spent all day working off your uncle's debts and all night taking care of your family, didn't you?"

"Maybe," she admitted sheepishly. "But it was better than having Mother cook and attending to Athenril's needs with an ill stomach. Poor Carver," she sighed, "he's always had sensitive digestion. Besides, I did not have much else to do at the time. There were no parties or balls, no demands on my time, no egos to soothe or apologies to make. Things were easier and simpler."

"Would you go back if you had the chance?"

"Never." She tilted her head forward and pressed a kiss to his thumb. "Our trials make us who we are."

"I don't know how many more times I can say it…but you are a marvelous woman, Marcelle."

"I am nothing without the people around me. I could not do what I do if I did not have a reason for it. Without Carver, Mother, you…" she smiled at him tenderly, "what sort of life would I have?"

"A boring and peaceful one," he teased, and his only response from her was a quick press of her mouth to his. "And not a lifetime of war," he murmured as she pulled away.

"Such a lifetime would be bearable with you by my side."

"Hopefully, the tensions won't last forever." Sebastian tucked a lock of hair over her ear. "I would have our children be born in a world of peace." He saw Marcelle's eyes widen and her mouth part in something that looked like fear. "I apologize..." he said quickly. "I think I may have overstepped my bounds there. It is perhaps too early to talk of children."

"No," Marcelle pulled her face from his, "not too early, just complicated right now."

"What is the matter?"

"No," she shook her head, her usually open face closed as a book swiftly shut. "Not now. We'll talk of this later, when we're in Starkhaven."

"I…" he sighed, not understanding her reservations but respecting them all the same. "All right."

The rest of the evening passed in companionable silence. The two lovers finished their dinner and settled themselves in for a few hours of rest. Sebastian would take the first watch, and he had his bow at his side in case trouble came calling. Marcelle would take the second watch, and she needed no other weapon than her hands. Sebastian felt her drift off to sleep at his side, noticing the subtle change in the sound of her breathing and the limpness of the shoulder pressing against him with each even breath.

In his waking solitude, Sebastian peered out into the starlight gloom. Beyond the echoes of night birds and the sound of their horse grazing on the roots and grass around its tethering post, the night was completely silent. It remained as such for the entirety of his watch, but not for Marcelle's. An hour into her vigil, wolves stalked out of the copse of trees in the distance and howled.

The pack consisted of ten wolves, all black as night under the evening stars. The largest wolf led the way, galloping across the rolling plains to where the two tender morsels and the nickering lump of flesh lay in waiting. The wolves charged with no fear, and the horse, sensing the danger, shrieked and screamed in the night. It bucked and reared against its tether as Sebastian was roused to consciousness by Marcelle's urgent fingers. He stood just as the horse finally lifted itself with enough force to completely snap the cord that held it in place.

The horse went charging into the night, breaking the cover of the rocks and making for the safety of the road. Sebastian was chasing after it while Marcelle was casting a cantrip, her hands glowing blue and white and flashing like lightning in the darkness. She released her spells, and the night became like day, offering Sebastian a view of the road, and the road a view of him. He turned sharply and sprinted back around the corner of the rocks once more. He saw that the wolves were frozen in place, howling and snapping at the icicles that pound their paws to the grounds, as well as Marcelle rubbing her hands together. She was forming the words of a sleeping spell, but Sebastian didn't let her finish. He put his hands to her neck and shoulders and forced her down to the ground. He pressed her against the stone and clapped a hand over her mouth.

"We _can't _use _magic,_" he hissed at her amidst the snapping and growling of the wolves to keep her head down and to _not say anything. _

She blinked, and then cast her gaze sideways to the pitch-black wraiths in the moonlight, their fur standing on end as they whined and howled. Sebastian turned his eyes to follow her stare, meeting the yellow eyes of the pack leader, and seeing their evil intent.

But that pack leader was the least of their concerns.

Voices were shouting from the road, and they were coming closer. Heavy footsteps rang out in the darkness, the clattering of armor and swords and shields causing the wolves to squeal and growl against their bindings.

Marcelle worked her mouth free of Sebastian's hand. "Who is it?"

Sebastian reached for the bow he propped against the rock. His grip was tight around the well polished wood. "Templars."

* * *

><p><em>The story continues in Chapter 25! Dun, dun, dunnnnnnn!<em>


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

At his words, Marcelle sucked in a breath through clenched teeth. Her brow drew upwards, deepening the thick lines in her skin, and she turned concerned – but sternly resolute – eyes to his face. "How do you know?"

"I saw them," Sebastian whispered back, "when you cast your magic. They were on the road; perhaps camped there…I'm not sure." The growling wolves but a few feet away made Sebastian's limbs tense and shake in anticipation. He closed his eyes and focused. Beyond the sound of the wild animals, Sebastian could hear the crunching of heavy, booted feet coming towards them. He trained his senses on the metallic clanging and the squeak and release of leather soles and straps. There was a fair sized group heading their way… "It sounds like maybe there are ten heading towards us. There's might be more than that still waiting on the road." When he opened his eyes again, he found Marcelle looking at him with an expression he did not like. "You're not…you're not going to turn yourself into them?"

"No." Marcelle's stony expression evaporated into a sly smile. "If they ask you about the ice, just say you used a frost rock."

"A what?"

But Sebastian didn't receive an answer, merely a quick kiss to his lips and Marcelle's murmur of, "make sure you hide my clothes."

Eyes widening and his hands going to her shoulders, Sebastian opened his mouth to question her further, but the sound of shattering forced Sebastian to turn quickly and raise an arm over his face. One of the wolves had broken free of the ice and had lunged at him. The wolf's muzzle was dripping with hungry saliva, and it splattered against Sebastian's cheek as its mouth wrapped around the plating of his forearm. Its claws scrabbled against the plate and leather of his torso as the wolf tried to drag Sebastian to the ground, rearing on its hind legs, limbs flailing, before dropping to all fours once more. The nails barely made a scratch against Sebastian's milk-white armor, though a particularly vicious gouge did manage to scrape a sharp grove into the left eye of Andraste on his belt buckle.

Sebastian managed to drive the pry the wolf's jaws away from his arm by clubbing it over the head with his bow. The creature went whining and skittering around the barking mass of half-frozen wolves, slinking into the shadows. Now with a full view of the creatures, Sebastian saw that the coats of the wolves were soaked through, and he shot a glance down to where their paws were trapped and saw what he dread most: the spell was fading. The wolves would soon break free, and the first thing they would lunge for would be him.

He hissed a warning to Marcelle, as well as an order to stay behind him, and stay out of sight as best she could. When he heard no response, no affirmation or disagreement, not even a hum of consideration, he reached a hand behind him. He dared not take his eyes from the wolves, but when his hand found only empty air, he did so. Sparing a moment to drop his guard, Sebastian looked over his shoulder. She was gone – Marcelle had vanished. Yet, her clothes remained behind.

"_Make sure you hide my clothes._"

An owl hooted nearby, hiding in the shrub grass of the field.

Unfortunately, there was no time to dig a hole or stuff the items into his saddlebag. A wet, crackling sound ripped through the air, and Sebastian placed his hand on the knife he had tucked into his belt. His eyes met those of the alpha wolf's, for that was the next of the beasts to escape. He prepared himself for a lunge, but the creature made no move to attack him. Instead, the big, black beast cautiously trotted behind the rest of the pack. Sebastian saw him through what remained of the ice, caught glimpses of the alpha's yellow eyes as he raised and lowered his head. Every time the alpha ducked, nuzzling his muzzle against the hindquarters of his pack, the wolves around him howled and frenzied. Those who did not pull and scrabble faced the wrath of the alpha's teeth, and the wolf snapped at his pack's heels and claws at their tails. In response to his stirring, the other wolves snapped their jaws and rolled their eyes as they were pressed forward against the ice.

With the weight of the angry wolves upon it, the ice shattered. And with its shattering, the wolves were free to fight. They lurched paws over head, some stumbling to the ground only to be leapt over by eager comrades. And all the while, the alpha with the yellow eyes watched from behind them.

Sebastian drew his knife and slashed at the wolves that sought to overrun him. He plunged it into the eye of one, while using the edge of his bow to once club another wolf in the head. Finding the bow unwieldy, he dropped it to the ground and settled for his fingers. The next wolf that grabbed him – this one clamping its jaws around his poleyn – received his thumb in its eye. The half-blinded wolf quickly gave up the fight and tried to flee, but was blocked from leaving by the large, aggressive alpha that promised death to deserters. But the alpha was like a shadow in the night, and Sebastian wasn't even acknowledging him. He was too busy crouching and ducking, drawing his forearms over his face as he did so. The wolf he was dancing with sailed over his head, its claws raking along his back plate as it bounded over him, over the rock behind him, and by the clattering and shouting, onto a pile of angry, armored Templars who were no doubt going to hack it to pieces.

For all Sebastian's quick reflexes and his ability to weave in and out of the wolf pack and its snapping teeth, he was not quick enough to escape the attack of the alpha wolf. As he spun rapidly, the edge of the dagger leading as he hacked at an attacker, the alpha wolf glided through the air like a bat. He locked his jaws around Sebastian's unarmored arm, the same one he used to draw the string on his longbow, and growled loudly. The alpha's long, sharp teeth bit through the thick leather padding and wool coat that Sebastian wore. Sebastian's mail jacket did not extend to his arms, as its weight hindered his ability to hold, draw, and aim his weapon of choice – and while Sebastian usually did not regret that sacrifice, in that moment, he did. A sharp shake of the alpha's large head sent the teeth scissoring deep into Sebastian's flesh. It was trying to tear a chunk out of him, but more worryingly, it was also trying to bring Sebastian down to his knees. Sebastian knew that as soon as the alpha had forced him forward, his and neck would be exposed to the wolf pack, and when that happened, Sebastian would probably die.

Around him, the surviving wolves circled and snarled, waiting for their leader to weaken him. They flashed their yellow teeth at Sebastian, and shook their damp, drab hindquarters in anticipation.

"Hey," shouted an angry voice, its deep tones splitting the cool, night air. "Get away from him!"

The call was followed by the rustling of armor and grunts of exertion, and Sebastian suddenly found himself not standing amidst a group of circling wolves, but instead surrounded by men and women of the Templar Order. Their armor shone silver in the moonlight, the bright gleam of their polished pauldrons and breastplates reflecting the stars over head. The wolves retreated at the sight of them, ducking their heads and baring their teeth with menacing growls – well, all wolves save the alpha. The alpha's long fangs were stuck in the spongy leather and wool of Sebastian's armor, and it scrabbled and whined as its comrades left it behind. A Templar without his helm kicked at the alpha wolf, raised his sword over head, and then sliced the beast in half with one quick stroke.

At the sight of their pack leader's death, the remaining wolves scattered back the way they came. They bounded body-to-body into the darkness and the scraggily trees, yipping and howling back to their dens where they would soon be engaged in another battle – this one for dominance.

The hooting of the owl chased them away into the night.

Sebastian drew his injured arm up across his chest and looked down to inspect the damage. He was bleeding, but it was hard to assess the damage in the darkness with his coat on. In truth, he was not much concerned about the damage, he merely wanted to delay speaking with the Templars who had come to his rescue, as well as offer them something to focus their attention on. Better they be concerned about his injury than the mass of clothing and lingering magic.

"You're lucky we came along, serrah" said the Templar who had severed the alpha wolf in two. He sheathed his sword and came to stand in front of Sebastian. "Well met, stranger. I am Ser Lukas, Knight-Commander of the Templar Order." Ser Lukas was a tall man, with a long face that was marked with several nasty looking claw marks. He had a lower lip that was split in two, and eyes that were so pale they looked almost silver in the moonlight.

"Well met, indeed," replied Sebastian warily, eyeing the man's scarred face, as well as the hand that was stretching out to check his arm. "That will teach me to doze off in the Fereldan wilds."

"Teaches us all that. One of my men got mauled by a _bear_ several days north of here_,_" Ser Lukas gave a violent shudder. "A nasty sight, that. I hate this country, sometimes."

Sebastian noticed a distinctly Orlesian accent in the man's voice, just as he was sure that the Templar had noticed his own Marcher's accent. "The wildlife, certainly, is not very welcoming."

Ser Lukas nodded, sending moonlight rippling along the graying curls of his black hair. "Nor are the people. We've been through the void trying to get here. No doubt you've probably experienced much the same. These Fereldans hate outsiders. We made port at Amaranthine and," he scowled, sending his thick, black eyebrows knotting together, "the Arlessa gave us an unnecessary amount of trouble. And since we've left, we've only encountered the same in the other towns we've passed through." Lukas shook his head. "They're just asking to be _murdered_ by an apostate revolution. When their towns are destroyed and their children are raped by blood mages, they'll come to regret their ignorance."

"Apostate _revolution_?" Sebastian tried to keep his tone as earnest as possible. He had seen firsthand what such a 'revolution' could do: and that had been only one man. "Maker preserve us, what is this world coming to?"

"Darkness and damnation," said a Templar from somewhere in the gloom. Her voice was harsh and throaty, and sounded like rocks scraping down a cliff side.

Ser Lukas cleared his throat in acknowledgement of the woman's words and then gestured towards the road. "Was that your horse, serrah, which was scared away?"

"Aye," Sebastian nodded. "She was the reason why I managed to wake as quickly as I did. Nothing scares a horse better than a wolf."

"I see." Ser Lukas shrugged. "My Templars corralled it on the road, if you'd like to go back and retrieve it."

"Oh, my thanks."

"My pleasure." Ser Lukas motioned for Sebastian to follow him, and the Prince of Starkhaven fell into step beside him. "Have you a name, Marcher?"

"Maximilian," he replied quickly, using his middle brother's name.

"Maximilian," repeated Ser Lukas. "What brought you out to Ferelden?"

"Delivering letters," Sebastian lied. "I am a courier for the Vael Family of Starkhaven." It was so much easier to lie when there were elements of truth to the fabrication.

"Courier, are you?" Ser Lukas raised an eyebrow and gave Sebastian an inquisitive stare, eyes roaming up and down the white and gold armor he wore. "You are armored very well for a courier."

"Well," Sebastian absently touched his wounded arm, "these are dangerous time, and my letters were very important." Ser Lukas had likely never heard of Sebastian Vael, let alone have seen him, though the fact that the Templar was still eyeing his armor with a look that Sebastian feared was recognition did not sit well with him.

Mercifully, the Templar didn't press any further about his appearance, and instead switched to his intent. "Who did you deliver letters to?"

"Arlessa Cousland in Amaranthine and Arl Teagan of Redcliffe." He had met Arl Teagan of Redcliffe in Kirkwall once before, and it was the only other name of a Fereldan noble he was familiar with, beyond King Alistair and Teyrna Anora – neither of those two being even remotely close to this region of Ferelden.

"So you've encountered the Hero of Ferelden, have you?"

"Aye, I have. Briefly." That was a lie too – he'd been in Aurora Cousland's custody for longer than he would have liked, though he was grateful now for the time he'd spent there. "She wasn't very interested in dealing with me."

"How fortunate for you."

Sebastian nodded. "Indeed."

"So, how was Redcliffe?" Ser Lukas asked mildly. "Busy?"

"I was only there a day," Sebastian shrugged. "It seemed quiet enough. I'll admit, I have a hard time to distinguishing about what amounts to as 'busy' or 'quiet' in Ferelden. Starkhaven is much more active, so everything seems rather mild around here." This was actually a truth: Redcliffe had been like a ghost town, and things in Ferelden were not as busy as they were in Sebastian's city. The exception to that rule was perhaps Denerim, even Amaranthine, for the simple fact that they were busy ports. But even then, they seemed small in Sebastian's eyes. Nothing was quite as grand as Starkhaven, especially now that it was his.

"Ah." Ser Lukas didn't seem all that interested in his response. He didn't even look at Sebastian when he answered. He kept his straight and his eyes fixed on the rapidly approaching campfires of the Templars along the road.

Sebastian's horse was by one of the campfires on the periphery, and to get to it, Sebastian found himself once more surrounded on all sides by the Order.

A lanky, broad-nosed man with a bald head was rubbing his gauntlet up and down the horse's nose to soothe it. The horse was stamping its hooves and squishing its tail in agitation, likely due to the fact that there too many strange sights and smells in its general vicinity. There were many Templars nearby, some mulling around on the sides of the road, others weaving themselves in between bedrolls as they talked of nothing, and the rest keeping close to their fires. A few of the Templars at the campfires were cooking, kneeling on the ground in front of them and placing metal cups of water over the flames as they boiled their salted pork for dinner. No tents were pitched, which meant that they were likely in a hurry.

Sebastian had just reached the Templar who had his horse and was opening his mouth to speak when he felt someone prodding at his injured arm. Ser Lukas was taking the liberty of inspecting his wound. Sebastian saw his blood on the man's armored fingertips.

"It does not look so bad," Ser Lukas murmured. "But the wolf, it has a bite that can be infectious if it is not treated. Here." He pressed a small vial of red liquid, a distilled elf-root potion, into Sebastian's hand. "You are more than welcome," Ser Lukas said, "to make your camp for the remainder of the evening with us. We'll be leaving in five hours hence, so you can rest here until then."

"Ah, thank you," Sebastian pressed the vial to his chest and moved to his horse, "but I could not intrude upon your hospitality. I don't think the wolves will come back anytime soon, so I should be fine on my own."

Ser Lukas's pale eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Are you hiding something from me, Maximilian?"

"What? No!" Sebastian pulled his arm away from the Templar. "Why in the Maker's name would you make an accusation like that?"

"There's…something _lingering _on you. Where you were sleeping. Something…magical." Ser Lukas inhaled deeply. "There were also shards of ice on the ground where the wolves were. Last I checked, it wasn't snowing here."

"Oh, that?" Sebastian released a slow chuckle. "That was a frost rock. Our quartermaster gave it to me before I left Starkhaven. He said I was only to use it in case of an emergency, and I think being attacked by wolves in the middle of the night counted as such."

Ser Lukas closed his eyes. "And you are not a mage?"

"No! What gives you that impression?"

"You never can tell these days." Ser Lukas sighed and opened his eyes. "Will you ease my fears and submit yourself to a test?"

Sebastian looked at the Templar warily. "That depends on your test."

"It is simple, really." Ser Lukas smiled, and it was hideous and deformed. "I will attempt to nullify your connection to the Fade. If you are a mage, you will become disoriented. If you are not…it will only sting."

"Only - " Sebastian was knocked off his feet as a sudden blast of energy hit him square in the chest. It sent him skidding backwards along the ground, his legs in the air, and drove all the air from his lungs. He sat up and wheezed. "Maker's mercy!"

Ser Lukas appraised him with a sour expression, and then came to kneel in front of him. He took Sebastian's face in his hands and used his thumbs to pull up his eyelids. Sebastian resisted, trying to move his head away, but Ser Lukas was persistent and gazed deeply into Sebastian's eyes. Sebastian saw his eyes darting and peering, searching for some sign of magic.

"Are you _done_?" he asked loudly, doing his best to keep the disdain and anger out of his voice. Ser Lukas did not know he was manhandling Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven. They thought he was but a mere courier, and thus worthy of the disrespect.

"I am, yes." Ser Lukas stood, and wiped his gauntlets on the red fabric that hung about his waist. "I see nothing magical inside you."

"I could have told you that!"

"I had to be sure."

Sebastian pushed the hand the Templar offered him away and stood on his own. "It was not appreciated."

Ser Lukas gave a shrug of his heavy pauldrons. "You're clear to leave whenever you wish, Maximilian of Starkhaven."

"_Thanks._" Sebastian wiped the dirt from his armor, and then stooped down quickly to gather the elfroot potion. "Now, if you'll excuse me – I'll be on my way."

"As you wish, Serrah. Safe journeys on your return to Starkhaven."

"My thanks," Sebastian did not tip his head, but that didn't mean he couldn't be polite. "And safe journeys to you as well…wherever you're going." He gathered the reins of the horse and with a whispered word of encouragement, walked the horse down the road, around the camp, and back to the rocks and the shady alcove where he and Marcelle had made camp. He tethered the horse once more, apologizing to the beast that the cord was so short, and then set about the task of cleaning up the area. He did his best moving all the bits of wolf gore and detritus that littered the ground, and was thankful that much of the carnage had been done at least a body's length away from where they had been resting. The blood that splattered the ground would stink and fester, but by the time it became an issue, Sebastian hoped they would be long gone. Sebastian dragged the wolf carcasses a safe distance away from the camp, hoping that any other scavengers that came in the night would go for the corpses, rather than Sebastian.

Settling himself in a place that was clean, Sebastian unstopped the top of the vial and drank down the elfroot concoction. It burst like lemon juice over his tongue, sour and acidic, and altogether needing more sugar. But the bad taste was worth it, for it only took a few minutes for the effects of the potion to become noticeable. Though his wound burned and itched, he knew that it was healing by the sudden heat and heaviness in his forearm. Come the morning, his drawing arm would be fully healed. He placed the empty bottle down by his thigh and jumped when he felt something sharp nip at his exposed fingertip.

Looking down sharply, Sebastian saw a familiar brown and white owl bobbing amidst the pile of mostly undisturbed clothing that Marcelle had left behind.

"Marcelle?" he whispered at it, extending his hand to the small bird. "Is that you?"

The owl swayed on its legs before extending one wickedly curved claw around his finger.

He scooped the bird up gently and raised it to his chest. His long fingers tickled the soft, downy feathers of the bird's back. With each stroke, the owl fluffed its feathers, and when it did so, Sebastian stroked them again, flattening them once more. He delicately drew a fingertip over the top of the owl's head, and as it had done before in the Chantry, it shut its eyes and began to chitter deep within its chest. It looked less like an owl, and more like a shaking ball of brown and white yarn.

The more Sebastian caressed the small bird, the more at ease he felt. He let his thumbs glide over the silky tops of the owl's wings, and from where it rested against his palm he felt the quick beat of its heart. It was such a tender, fragile thing.

But while Marcelle was tender, she was not particularly fragile. Marcelle climbed mountains and moved mountains, and she was as strong in her spirit as she was in her magic. She was not often sad, and she did not suffer from the hysteria that seemed to plague most well-born women. She was simply Marcelle: amazing, charming, powerful, but also very practical. He thought her very clever for disguising her form – though even Sebastian had to admit that such magic gave him pause. Even when he'd first seen it in the Chantry, he had been forced to dampen his wonderment with suspicion. As far as he knew, transformation was said to be a forgotten art, left only for barbarians in the wild and the most wicked mages of the Imperium. How Marcelle had come upon such knowledge, he did not know.

He didn't think he wanted to.

Still, Marcelle's owl body was quite a novelty. It was soft, surprisingly cuddly, and easily concealable. It was rather adorable when she chattered and hooted, her beak opening and her tongue stretching in her mouth. She acted as though she understood him when he spoke to her, but he had absolutely no way of interpreting her own responses. Sebastian had to wonder if Marcelle was still_ Marcelle _while she was an owl. Did she still think and reason? Or did she give in to the animal's baser instincts? And if she did give in, could she lose herself to them?

It was quite a quandary, and one that Sebastian pondered over until he drifted off to sleep…and also woke up to, when the sudden pressure of weight on his thighs and lips against his pulled him from his slumber.

Warm, naked forearms cradled his face and slender legs were pillowed in his lap as he emerged from the sea of sleep. Dripping with dreams and with a mouth that felt like cotton, Sebastian struggled for an answer that rested on the edge of his consciousness. Like a moth, it danced away from his fingertips. Opening his eyes, Sebastian's world became a slowly focusing blur of pink, yellow, white. Marcelle's smiling face loomed over his, and he groggily wrapped his arms around her slim, pale waist and let his lips be coaxed open by the gentle lapping of her tongue.

"The Templars are all gone," Marcelle whispered between her kisses, pressing her breasts against his chest piece, "they left an hour ago and did not come visit during the night."

Sebastian took several moments to understand her words, stalling for time by tracing the column of her spine down her back. "You were awake all night?" He managed to reply, his blue eyes still bleary. The dawn sky around them was the color of Marcelle's lips, and he was unsure where the sunrise began and her hair ended.

"Only when you were asleep." She smiled and rubbed her nose against his. She chuckled when Sebastian's fingers curled into the tips of her hair. "Do you like waking up like this?"

"Ah…pressed against a rock?"

"No," she said in a low voice, "like _this._" Her lips were on his again, worrying on his bottom lip with her teeth. Her blue eyes were half-lidded and wicked as they stared at him, and she released his lip with a wide smirk that flashed her pretty teeth at him.

It took Sebastian a few moments to understand what she meant. "Oh. _Oh._" Sebastian's cheeks flushed. "Y-yes. I very much like waking up like this."

Marcelle flashed him a brilliant and indulgent smile at his response and stretched languidly in front of him. She raised her arms over her head and pointed full breasts and pert nipples at his face. "Mmmmmm." She rolled her neck and flexed her shoulders. "I am quite stiff. No doubt," her voice pitched low, "you are too."

Sebastian's head thumped back against the rock as he both tried to admire the view, and escape from it. He felt her fingers worm their way under the armor at his neck. He was already hot and hard from sleep, but now he was hot, hard, and _aching _with Marcelle rubbing her naked body all over him. "You know this isn't wise."

"I know," she replied soberly, or about as soberly as one could be when they were stark naked in the middle of a field. "But you looked so handsome while you were sleeping." She smiled sheepishly. "I could not resist stealing a kiss or two."

"Two?" Sebastian raised an eyebrow.

"I kissed you once," she murmured, "but you didn't wake up. Just a simple thing," she leaned forward, "like this." Her lips brushed against his like the beating of a moth's wings. "Wives may take liberties of their sleeping husbands, yes?"

Sebastian gave a mock hum of thought. "Mmmmm. Why, yes. I think they can. But," he held up a finger. "We are not married yet."

"I will still," she protested with a kind laugh, "take my liberties."

"Provided," Sebastian cupped her chin with his fingers, "that I get to do the same." He had just leaned forward to give her a kiss of his own when she stopped him with two fingers to his lips.

"This," she said in a mirror of his earlier tone, "isn't wise."

"You," Sebastian growled, "evil temptress." He pulled her chin down and placed a ferocious kiss to the top of her forehead, the smack of his lips against her skin echoing in the cool dawn. He felt Marcelle's body shake with laughter at the action. "I'll not play your games anymore, wicked woman. Get dressed, and let us be on our way. I will see to you tonight."

Marcelle did as he commanded, but to Sebastian's chagrin it was not with speed or efficiency. She gathered and sorted her clothes in a highly impractical and sinfully slow fashion before she stood. She swayed and shimmied her way into her smalls and trousers, bending where appropriate to accentuate the curves of her body and display to Sebastian the secret places that only he, as her lover, should know of. Every noise he made in reaction to the sight of her only caused her to move even slower, to trace and drag torturous fingertips over her naked skin as she bound her breasts. She slipped on her shirt, belt, and binder, fastening the latter with artful touches that promised much. At last finally dressed, she put her hands on her hips and smiled, and Sebastian had to take several minutes to collect himself before he got up to join her in breaking camp.

He was glad that she would be riding behind him, because he did not think he would be able to keep himself from spilling into his smalls if he had to contend with the feel of her thinly clad rear rubbing against him all day.

And Maker, he guessed that the day was probably going to be _very _long.

* * *

><p><em>To Amaranthine we go!<em>


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

Day and night they rode, passing through landscapes of green grass and brown mud, grey stone and blue water, and red brick and yellow straw. They were riding directly into a storm, as the closer they got to the coast the darker the sky became. It did not rain, but the clouds sat above them heavy and threatening, wide and pregnant with moisture but refusing to let it loose in their greed. The two riders were grateful for the environmental reprieve, having had enough of rain from their earlier journey. They had discovered that in the rain was a _miserable _endeavor.

They were nearing Amaranthine City when the first kiss of rain splashed across their cheeks. But it was a momentary thing – a fluke of nature – as no further rain came at them. Thunder rolled over the crests of the hills around them and lightning cracked over head, but the rain stayed where it was.

However, what came in its place had both Marcelle and Sebastian wishing for the rain instead.

The two had just spied a marker in the road that signaled they were not more than half a day's ride from the walls of the city when, over the crest of a hill, there came four riders. They were Grey Wardens, though only identifiable when they drew near. In the grey light, it wasn't hard to make out the embossed griffons on their armor, as well as the grey cloaks that snapped behind them in the blustering wind. Everything about the day was grey: the clouds, the color of the grass, the cloaks flailing in the breeze, and the expressions that the Wardens wore.

Sebastian had brought the horse to a halt and waited for the Grey Wardens to approach. The palfrey shifted nervously and swung its head from side to side, swishing its tail, but both Sebastian and Marcelle murmured gentle words to it as they watched the Grey Wardens descend. Sebastian squeezed the top of Marcelle's hand gently, and she kissed his cheek in response.

"Hail and well met, sojourners!" called the Warden Commander as she drew close. The wind and the thunder did its best to drown out her voice and carry it away, but Warden Commander Cousland was as much a force of nature as the elements were, and her words reached her targets. Below the Warden Commander's armored thighs, her black charger was dancing and pulling at its bridle, twisting to move away. She held its reins in a mithril clad fist, refusing to let the beast have its way.

"And to you, my lady," Sebastian called out. "What brings you out this way?"

Flanking the Warden Commander were two lean, narrow faced individuals with shaggy brown hair. One of them was a woman, her face gaunt and her cheeks as sharp as glass, while the other was a man who wore the feral grin of a wolf. Sebastian and Marcelle recognized the Warden Commander's Second, Cauthrien, though the man was harder to identify with his dark shadow of facial hair and shadowy expression. In comparison to his scowl, the Warden Commander looked positively joyful.

The last Grey Warden remained at the crest of the hill, his dark hair being pulled back and forth by the wind. He was tall and broad shouldered, and sat awkwardly over the top of his horse. He wore heavy armor, and the hilt of a large sword poked over a pauldron. Marcelle recognized him instantly: it was Carver.

"I was out _hawking,_" the Warden Commander replied knowingly. She held up her right arm and displayed the thick, leather pad around her gauntlet. "Unfortunately, it would appear that I have _lost _my hawk. I am so terrible at training them."

"Hawking?" Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "Why, there isn't even any sport out for the hawks to hunt…"

"Oooohhhhh," the Warden Commander drew out the word, "predators will find just about anything to _hunt _these days. Why, sometimes I think they could even survive on _imaginary_ prey_. _There is," she continued, "something relaxing about watching hawks on the hunt. I enjoy doing it when I find life in Amaranthine too…_troublesome. _Why, my port," she pursed her lips, "is giving me a world of trouble. None of my merchants can leave. We have been blockaded."

"That means," added the wild-haired Grey Warden with a vicious smile, "you should probably just crawl under a rock and hide somewhere for the next few days." He audibly sniffed the wind and then spat on the ground.

Marcelle made a small sound of understanding in the back of her throat, which prompted Sebastian to tighten his grip on the reins. "Speak plainly," he commanded.

The Warden Commander smiled darkly, which emphasized the dark circles forming under her eye and the scars that cut across her face. She nudged her horse forward, coming alongside Sebastian's horse. Her poleyn jostled Marcelle's knee. "The Templars have sailed a fleet into Amaranthine, and to force my compliance they have blocked our trading routes with their ships. Your ship is in the harbor, but you will not be able to leave without inspection." Her eyes flicked to Marcelle. "You cannot enter my territory safely. They patrol the roads and the towns."

"King Alistair - " Marcelle said, but was promptly cut off with a raise of the Warden Commander's hand.

"Denerim faces the same situation, as does Gwaren. There will be no support coming from our rather ill-fated king."

"Then what do we do?" Sebastian asked. "I _need _to return to Starkhaven."

"I said," the Warden Commander smirked, "that I came out here to _hawk. _I rode to this location with one, but now have it no longer. If I were to return to Amaranthine, I would _need _a replacement, so as not to look suspicious – or worse: incompetent." She placed her hand on Marcelle's forearm. "I know it is somewhat cliché to ask a _Hawke_ to turn into a _hawk, _but I am asking it regardless. Carver tells me you have the ability to shapeshift. I am asking you to use it."

"I have never turned into anything other than an owl," Marcelle licked her lips. "I do not practice the art often."

"Well," the Warden Commander did not seem sympathetic, "it is time for you to perform some sort of miracle then. We're an ahead of a column of Templars marching this way, but that was about thirty minutes ago. You are out of time."

"I would need to _see _one," Marcelle insisted. "To see a hawk."

"Can you not see it in your memory?" The Warden Commander's eye narrowed. "Come, girl, do not tell me that the Champion of Kirkwall, legendary mage, and slayer of Qunari cannot manage to turn into a simple little _bird_?"

"And so what if she does turn into a hawk?" Sebastian's voice was as sharp as the sword at the Warden Commander's hip, "she cannot stay in that form for long. You make it sound as though we would have to wait _days _to be able to leave for Starkhaven."

"And days you probably will, if that blockade is anything to go by." The Warden Commander shifted impatiently in her saddle. "The secret entrance into the Vigil is currently unavailable to us for reasons that you do not need to know. The only way into Amaranthine for Marcelle, consequently, is either dead in my arms, or as a hawk _on _my arm." She acknowledged Sebastian's incredulous look with a small harrumph of displeasure. "Trust me, once I get you i_nto _the Vigil, I _can_ get you out of it. I have more resources in my castle than I do out in a field."

"How did you find us?" asked Marcelle. "How did you know we were coming?

The Warden Commander said nothing, though even if she had wanted to, she couldn't have. At his place on the crest of the hill, Carver gave a sharp whistle and held his left hand in the air. The Warden Commander leveled a stern look at Marcelle. "You know what signal means, do you not?"

Marcelle nodded. "I suppose that means templars are close."

"Then get to it, Lady Hawke." The Warden Commander's horse pranced in place and she tugged on the reins sharply to still it. She gave an imperious extend of her leather covered arm, holding it out for Marcelle to see. "Your perch awaits."

Marcelle gave Sebastian's hands a firm squeeze and a quick kiss on his cheek and slipped from the saddle. Sebastian followed after her, dismounting and pulling his cloak from over her shoulders. He held this up around her, shielding her body from view.

"I am only naked after I shift back," she whispered to Sebastian with a loving smile, but Sebastian did not seem to listen. He was too busy staring daggers into the Grey Warden who was leering in their direction, his wolfish face pulled into a terrible grin.

Marcelle felt the eye of the Warden Commander staring down at her from her horse, and it sent a small tremor of alarm through her body. It was odd enough that she had ridden out all this way to warn them of entering Amaranthine, but how had she even known that they were coming? It struck her that the First Warden probably had a line of spies throughout Ferelden reporting on all movements she deemed important. What worried her more was the way that the Templars were acting within her domain, behaving as though they had effectively cowed her. If the Warden Commander, with all her power in Ferelden, felt powerless against them…

Marcelle wrapped her arms around herself and cleared her mind. She had seen hawks before, though not since she had lived in Lothering. The image that she drew forward was one of a hawk that had landed on one of the fence posts around the family garden. It was a beautiful, russet brown, with golden eyes, and a wickedly sharp beak. It had been staring at a small rabbit that was slowly picking its way across the vegetable patch. It would have eaten it, if Bethany had not come running down the street screaming with Carver hot on her heels.

The transformation took place quickly. Bones shrunk, skin melted, organs shifted, lips expanded outward and hardened. Her hair dissolved into sleek, brown plumage, and her eyes took on a lustrous golden tone. Her fingers melded together to form the tips of wings, and her toes curled and merged until they were sharp clawed talons. And as the world grew all around her in a landscape of cloth, weeds, and leather, she felt the earth shake below her tiny feet.

At the sound of many feet marching their way, Sebastian immediately swept his cloak back around his shoulders and reached down into the pile of Marcelle's clothes to retrieve…an owl.

The Warden Commander saw this and gave a grunt of annoyance. "Gather her clothes," she ordered Sebastian, "and place them and _her _in your saddlebag." She turned her horse around and rode towards her Grey Wardens, shouting loudly, "that _blasted _bird! Did you see that? Did you _see _that?"

Cauthrien gave a loud-sounding laugh, which at such a volume did not sound forced in the slightest. "You'll have better luck just giving up the sport all together."

"This has _ruined _my day."

Carver urged his horse alongside Vidar's, trying to hide himself from the view of the Templars. Sebastian did likewise, except he rode his horse to the Warden Commander and used the bulk of her armor, as well as his cloak, for cover.

The templars that Carver had warned of were now in plain sight, having marched their way around the curve in the road. Their commander at the head of the column turned his head to stare at the commotion of the Warden Commander staring sourly at a copse of trees in the distance, the four other Grey Wardens with her trying to placate her.

"That bird cost me _fifty _sovereigns!" The Warden Commander threw her hands up in the air. "That is the last time I purchase anything from that merchant again. Ugh. Disgusting." She pointed to the trees. "Disgusting! No better than a pigeon! If I catch you, I shall turn you into a pie!"

Inside his helmet, the Templar Commander rolled his eyes and shook his head. He motioned for his men to keep marching and to leave the eccentric Grey Wardens alone.

"Come along," the Warden Commander glowered for the sake of the marching Templars, "let us ride back to the Vigil."

And ride back they did. Sebastian was careful of the pace his horse set, as he did not want to crush Marcelle's fragile owl body. The Warden Commander seemed to sense this, and so did not set a particularly grueling pace. Her black charger ambled along the road quite happily. It was Carver and the other male Grey Warden who seemed pressed for time. They ran their much larger chargers at a faster pace, urging them ahead of the Warden Commander and her Second and then racing them back when they had gone too far. They only stopped their behavior when they came into view of the Vigil itself, the fortress rising high over the rolling fields of Amaranthine.

They followed the road straight to the gates, where they were greeted by the ever practical, ever-efficient Seneschal Varel. He spoke briefly to the Warden Commander, before grasping her horse's bridle and walking them to the stables. Taking the hand he offered when they had stopped, the Warden Commander dismounted from her saddle and patted his cheek with her gauntlet fondly.

"You take such good care of us," she crooned to the older man with a charming smile.

The seneschal returned her smile, though it was less enthusiastic and bright. "I've readied rooms for our guests, Commander," he said, gesturing to Sebastian.

"Rooms, you say," the Warden Commander smirked. "In the plural. Well, we shall see." She tossed her head back and sent her mane of curls flying behind her.

As soon as a stable hand came to assist Sebastian, he dismounted from his horse and immediately went to his saddlebag. He lifted the flap of the pouch and gently stuck both his hands into the small nest of fabric he had created near the top of the bag. He scooped up Marcelle's tiny body into his hands, bare fingertips stroking over her head and wings to make sure that she was unharmed. She twittered and hooted at the attention, her marvelous eyes closing.

The Warden Commander leaned over Sebastian's shoulder, mindful of his arm guard, and stared at the bundle of feathers in his hands. "If only owls really were that friendly," she mused. "Is she very soft?"

Sebastian only nodded, his fingers tickling the soft, downy feathers at her breast.

"Is it softer than her _skin,_" she asked in a low, teasing voice, her breath tickling Sebastian's neck.

"That is a bit nosy, Lady Cousland," Sebastian chided.

The Warden Commander only chuckled in reply and scratched her fingers over his backplate. "Come along, Prince Vael. Let us show you to your rooms."

8-8-8

It was the same room that Sebastian had stayed in before, and he could even smell the faint tang of his armor polish in the air. The Warden Commander could smell it too and shot him a wide smile. "One of my favorite scents," she said with a naughty wink before dropping the saddlebag she had carried for him onto the bed. "I shall have someone come fetch you when dinner is ready." As she walked by him, she sent a quick finger out to poke at the bundle of feathers in Sebastian's hands. The small owl sent out a long, high-pitched peep of surprise.

"If you were a big nasty hawk," teased the Warden Commander as she let her hand fall back to her side, "you could bite me for my trespass. Alas, you have a tiny beak, and tiny little talons!"

The owl merely fluffed its feathers and drew its head down to its body. With its golden eyes shut, it did not see the Warden Commander sweep out the door, but it did hear the door shut behind her.

Sebastian moved to the bed and gently placed the owl in its center. He shouldered the saddlebag and moved to the vanity stand, giving Marcelle the privacy she needed to transform back. He did not even hear her slip from the bed and pad across the room towards him. The only warning he had of her presence was the feel of her arms slithering around his waist and her chin resting against his shoulder.

"Did you know," she said with an obvious smile in her voice, "that you have an unnatural fondness for stroking my chest while I am an owl?"

Sebastian colored and swallowed quickly. "I…it had not occurred to me, no."

"Do you find my feathers soft?" she whispered silkily.

He nodded, staring down at the slim hands that were splayed across his chest. "Yes."

"Do you find _me _soft?"

He drew one uncovered fingertip down the back of her hand, tracing her veins. "Yes."

"I know that a husband needs no permission to touch his wife, but… you can stroke my chest," she planted a gentle kiss to his neck, "while I am a woman too, you know. I promise not to peep at you, or nip at your fingers…" She let her lips linger on his skin, breathing in the scent of his sweat and armor polish. It reminded her of their last year in Kirkwall together, when a haze of war had fallen over the city. The promise of violence hung thick in the air, and it had been a sweet and cloying stench that had stuck to Marcelle's pillows. The smell did not frighten her; the aroma of war that Sebastian wore was not intended to be used against her. It brought her comfort, because the smell promised protection. With his bow, hands, and his life, Sebastian had fought for her – would continue to fight for her.

"Peep at me?" Sebastian chuckled and untangled her arms from around him. He turned to face her and cupped her cheeks in his hands, gathering strands of her long hair between his fingers as he did so.

"_Peep,_" Marcelle sang, mimicking the call of the pygmy owl. She leaned forward and kicked up one leg, pointing her toes to the sky. "_Peep._"

Sebastian grinned at the display. "You…" he said, but before he continued he made a growl low in his chest and captured Marcelle's lips in a bruising kiss. His nose pressed awkwardly against hers, and their teeth nipped and clattered against each other, but all was forgotten when he slipped his tongue into her mouth and chased her tongue around her teeth. Her clever tongue drew him in, and when she had him where she wanted him, she wrapped her lips around his tongue and gave a low, gentle suck. Sebastian's hands tightened on either side of her face and he groaned against her, breaking the kiss with a flurry of hot, wet breaths. He instinctively drew her hips against his, rubbing his armor and arousal against the soft skin of her naked belly.

"You are going to be my undoing."

"I do hope so," she whispered breathlessly to him, "I would be disappointed if the honor went to another."

"Never."

"You never know." Her eyes flashed to the window, "they could have trees full of little owls in Amaranthine."

"Perhaps I should be the one who is worried?" He followed her gaze to the window. "You're probably the most beautiful owl in the whole of Thedas."

"And also the _coldest_," she said meaningfully, curling into his body for warmth. She gave a low hum of pleasure as Sebastian's skin-warmed gloves stroked along the curve of her back and over her shoulders. "My mother used to say that warm hands meant a warm heart." She closed her eyes and basked as Sebastian caressed her skin. "Though I did not have to touch you to know it."

"I am not always a good man," Sebastian murmured, concentrating on the feel of Marcelle's skin below his fingers. He was thankful for the fingerless gloves, or else he would never be able to touch the soft and creamy skin of her body. "But I do my best. You help me. A lot."

"As you help me."

Sebastian indulged himself in a few more minutes of caresses, savoring the feel of her warm body in his arms and the way her breaths came out in deep, trusting puffs. She was leaning heavily against him, and he had the sneaking suspicion that he might have put her to sleep with his touches. "Do you want me to find Lady Cousland and have her take you to your room?" he whispered against Marcelle's temple.

"No," she replied back in a lucid voice, "I am quite happy to stay here with you. That is," she asked, "if you do not mind?"

"No," he smiled, "I do not mind. Besides, I think we have …transcended that stage of propriety."

"The gossips in Starkhaven will be all a-twitter when they find out."

Sebastian's smile widened at the sounds Marcelle made when he ran exploratory fingers up and down her sides, her naked body squirming and writhing away from him. She was quick and lithe; not at all weighed down by sleep.

"Oh, mercy," she cried, trying to bat his hands away, "take mercy on me!" She crouched defensively, tucking her arms in at her sides to hide from Sebastian's onslaught.

The Prince of Starkhaven took advantage of her vulnerable position and scooped her into his arms, hoisting her bodily to the bed and depositing her on the thick fur coverlet. His smile softened at the sight of Marcelle lying across the bed, all smooth skin and golden hair, her pale bosom heaving as she caught her breath. She threw one arm over her eyes and the other over her stomach. Her only attempt to hide her nakedness was by the pressing together of her thighs. A part of him wanted to look away, but another part kept his feet rooted in place and his eyes fixed on her naked body. They weren't yet married, but they _were _to be married…

And he _had _seen it all before…

So there was no harm in looking. He let his eyes wander from the crown of her head to the toes on her feet. Her chin and nose were jutting out from underneath her arm, and her neck was slim and pushed forward. Her chest was rising and falling, deepening and softening the shadows underneath the swells of her breasts with each breath. And there was the gentle curve of her stomach and the generous cut of her hips, which tapered into long, white thighs and shapely calves. Her little toes were curled against the fur of the bed cover.

"Mercy…is the quality of princes," he said after a few moments of unabashedly studying her. The more his eyes skimmed her body, the hotter he felt his cheeks become.

"And the quality of your mercy is princely," she replied back to him, removing her arm from over her eyes. She slipped her hand behind her head and drummed her other hand's fingers over her stomach. She saw the way his eyes had darkened, as well as the flush of color on his cheeks. Sebastian's mouth hung open partly, his tongue resting on the curve of his lower lip. "Are you all right, Sebastian?"

"It's just… you're…naked." In his mind's eye he saw her legs wrapped around his waist and her arms around his back, her fingernails digging into her shoulders. She was arching and writhing, displaying her neck for him to kiss and her hips for him to grab…

"I am."

"And…you don't seem to mind being so."

"I am very comfortable." She smiled. "Do you mind me being naked?"

"It is…just distracting." He could also see her perched on his waist, her hands splayed across his chest as she rode the length of him. Her generous breasts were in his face, his mouth capturing one rosy nipple to suckle on. If she leaned back, he would be able to feel her hair tickle the tops of his thighs…

Marcelle tugged at the fur cover and pulled it up over her body. She propped herself on her elbows. "Are you less distracted?"

'No," he shook his head and let out an embarrassed chuckle, "it is too late for that."

"It was not my intent to distract you," she ran her fingers over the fur, enjoying the texture, "come, pass me my clothes from the saddlebag, and I shall dress. And then we can get you out of that armor?"

Sebastian nodded and moved stiffly to the saddlebag. His trousers rubbed mercilessly against his arousal as he moved, pinching and stroking him through his braies. His fingers curled around her shirt and binder, and he pulled these out before plucking out her britches, smalls, breast band and boots. Looking down at the bundle of clothing in his hands, he wondered how he ever managed to shove it all and Marcelle's little owl body into the saddlebag in time.

Marcelle took the clothing from him with a gracious smile and motioned for him to turn around with her finger. Sebastian complied and she slipped out of bed and began to dress. "Is it because we are not married?" she asked him. "Is that what gives you discomfort?"

"All I can think of," Sebastian scrubbed his hands over his face, "is that night when you turned from an owl into a woman in my bed. I am guilty of looking at you without your permission."

"You need permission to look upon me?" Marcelle bit her lip in amusement as she wrapped her breast band around her chest. "Who am I? The Empress of Orlais?"

"You _were _unconscious."

"Ohhhh," she drawled, "be reasonable. You did not know that I was the owl, nor could you have suspected that I would be _naked. _ You cannot blame yourself for something out of your control."

He sighed. "It was still wrong."

"Do you want my forgiveness?" Marcelle pulled Sebastian's shirt on and began to fasten her binder into place.

"I imagine you would forgive just about anything."

"Forgiveness," she echoed his earlier words and strode towards him on her bare feet, "is the quality of princes."

"And princesses," he added as he felt her arms glide around his waist once more. "Mercy, too."

"I am," she kissed his neck, "merciful. And forgiving. Thus, I _forgive _you for looking at my body without my prior consent. And I grant you the boon of _looking _at it without my explicit approval."

"Do you want a similar boon?"

"I would not mind."

"Then you shall have the same of me."

"Does this mean," she smiled against his unarmored shoulder, "that you will let me bathe you tonight?"

"Ba…bathe?" Sebastian spluttered. Thoughts of Marcelle's wet, slick hands running along his skin danced through his head.

"Yes," she purred. "I thought I might get some practice in my wifely duties."

"I…ehhh," he winced, "you said you were merciful?"

"Sebastian," Marcelle sighed and put her forehead to his shoulder. "You have taken care of me since Redcliffe, allow me to at least take care of you? I _respect _the decision we made. I've loved you for more than half a decade, and known you even longer. But during all that time, I don't think you've even let me see anything more than a glimpse of your naked chest."

"It was not proper."

"Nonsense," she countered. "Even when you were injured, you only let me see superficial cuts to your face and arms. You preferred to see Anders for healing of your more serious wounds."

"It was, again, not proper."

"If I asked you for assistance in bathing," Marcelle said coyly, "would you help?"

Sebastian nodded. "I would."

"Then why may I not do the same for you?"

"Because I fear I might not be able to control myself. It has been a long time," he murmured, resting one of his hands over hers, "but I am beginning to remember the pleasures of the flesh." For most of his time in the Chantry, he'd had the strength of will to resist taking himself in hand and beating out his frustration shamefully in the middle of the night. But he had faltered on some occasions – and they had all been because of Marcelle's doing. He had been especially penitent after seeing her that night in the Chantry, when she had been an owl in distress.

"My dear, sweet husband," she kissed the top of his hand, "was it you who chose a life of chastity? Or was it penance placed upon you by another?"

"I chose it," he replied, shivering as Marcelle's warm breath touched his bare fingertips, "my shameful behavior was the reason I was given to the Chantry. I resolved to correct my wayward habits, and be a man that my family and the Grand Cleric could be proud of."

"I am sure if they were here to see you now, they would all be very proud of you." Marcelle danced on her tiptoes, circling around Sebastian to land in the circle of his arms. "And I am very proud of you. You have overcome your vices, perhaps, too well." She smiled ruefully and rubbed her nose against his.

"It isn't that I've overcome them," he grasped her chin between his fingers, "if I had, all this would be very simple. I am merely…prone to excess. Were you to let your hands wander…" he gazed at her intently, "I might not be able to stop you from having your way. If I were to…spend myself…I would rather it be in you and _not _in my bathwater."

This caused Marcelle to raise an eyebrow. "I think that would be a very prudent course of action. Waste not…want not."

"Look at you," Sebastian smiled despite himself, "_so_ eager."

"I cannot get enough of you, what can I say?" She gave him an honest smile. "You have always been a dear friend, and I have loved you for a long time. I lost my sister, my mother, my brother, my friends, and my livelihood. I thought I lost you as well, but," she touched the backs of her fingers to his cheek, "you came back to me. If am overly amorous, do forgive me, I just… You have," she drew her hands up to his neck, fingers tickling his skin until they found the heavy chain of the phylactery, "_everything _I am. You have my trust, my love, everything I own – it is yours. I give every part of me to you, if only to thank you for _coming back._ I may be a fool for wishing do so, but a fool I will be."

"My gentle, beautiful fool." Sebastian embraced her tightly, wrapping his arms around her and drawing him into the warmth of his body. Her hands that fondled the chain around his neck splayed on his shoulders, and his fingers tilted her chin back. He kissed her deeply and he felt her pulse race as his tongue pressed against her lips. Her mouth was warm, wet, and inviting, and his tongue fenced with hers. When he pulled back to look at her face, he saw that her poor lips were red and kiss swollen – he had not been gentle with her that moment, nor had he been particularly gentle previously.

"I never want to pressure you, Sebastian," she let out a happy sigh, "I just forget my good fortune, and I would spend it all at once for how quickly fortune does change! A mere handful of days ago I was to become Tranquil. And now I am to become your wife."

"A very eager wife."

"Aye." She beamed. "I have never been a wife before. I've never even been a _lover _before. It is all so new and wonderful."

Sebastian kissed her again before she could start to wax on about the wonders of the world and being in love. As charming as it was, it only made Sebastian sad to think that the pretty girl in his arms had never known the happiness of real love. He had never known it, because he had sworn off the love of mortal men, preferring the succor of Andraste. But that had been _his _choice. Fate and unfortunate circumstance seemed to have made Marcelle's choice… Though what made him feel even worse was the acknowledgement that he had some part to play in her cloistering. If she had loved him for as long as she said he did, then she had been waiting in vain for him.

Marcelle frowned and drew back. "Mmm… you paused. Is everything all right?"

"I beg your pardon?" Sebastian blinked.

"Your lips went still. Are you well?"

"Oh," he shook his head. "I was just thinking of the past. If I had known that you had been waiting for me…"

"It was not a particularly great secret," Marcelle grimaced. "Everyone knew."

"Except me."

"I suppose."

"I thought you flirted like that with everyone."

"I didn't."

"Ah." He closed his eyes. "Your husband is a fool."

"My husband is too hard on himself. Perhaps," she pulled away and trailed over to where the heavy wooden bath basin sat, "he needs someone to tend to him?" She stepped into the empty bathtub and settled herself on her knees. She mimed washing her arms.

Sebastian's eyes opened at the creaking sound of wood, and he couldn't help the large roll of laughter that spilled out of his mouth at the sight of Marcelle comically washing herself. "I cannot say 'no' any longer. I'll ask for a bath to be drawn after dinner."

Marcelle's only response was to hold her nose and sink down below the edge of the tub, which sent Sebastian into another fit of laughter. He stalked over to her and knelt by the tub's edge, leaning his elbows on the wooden rim to look down at her.

"Do you think," Marcelle asked, pulling herself up into a kneeling position, "that this tub is big enough for both of us?"

Sebastian pursed his lips and tried to recall what it was like to bathe in it. "I think it would fit both of us, but we would probably be a tangle of legs." He watched her slip towards the end of the tub and then pat the space where her feet were. Against his better judgment, Sebastian climbed in beside her. Just as he predicted, they were a tangle of legs, though when Marcelle climbed atop him, leaning her chest against his, he found there was more than enough room.

"I think I could use a bath as well," she said with her face pressed close to his. "And I could do with some help reaching my more…troublesome areas." Her lips were pulled up into a grin as she brushed her lips against his in a whisper soft skin. "Like my back."

"It would be prudent," Sebastian said thoughtfully, "to not waste Lady Cousland's water."

"Why," she smirked, "how thoughtful of you, husband!"

"Waste not," he chuckled low in his throat, "want not. But promise me," he sobered and captured her hand and brought it to his mouth, "promise me you will keep me to my word. Not until Starkhaven; not until I have you crowned."

"I promise," Marcelle said, meaning every word, "that I will keep you to your word. You shall not have me until Starkhaven; not until I am crowned and seated beside you. All your heirs," she swallowed, hands growing moist at the thought of children, "will be legitimate, and your past deeds atoned for."

"Thank you." Sebastian kissed his way down her wrist, over her arm, up her shoulder, and over her neck, until he was peppering her face with feather light kisses. "You see? You are already performing one of your 'wifely duties:' keeping your husband faithful with his promises!"

"You are stronger than you know," she chided gently, "but I am happy to lend you some of my resolve when I can. Besides," she nipped at his chin playfully, "I think we might get splinters if we tried anything too exotic."

"Pretty and practical." Sebastian closed his eyes and settled back as comfortably as he could in the empty bathtub. A loud _thunk _against one of the walls caused them to open again. "Oh," he said in a low voice, "apparently, the Warden Commander has an infestation of _rather large rats._"

"And by rats," Marcelle sat up and looked over her shoulders, "you mean nosy Grey Wardens?"

"Or servants."

"Well," she turned back to him and smiled a wicked smile, "we shall just have to ask for another screen or two, won't we?"

Sebastian nodded his mute agreement, before he found himself being assaulted by Marcelle's clever little fingers and talented lips.

* * *

><p><em>We're back in action!<em>


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